Sometimes you can't believe this is real. You can't believe that Brittany just basically fell into your lap, and now here you are. She's your girlfriend. It's a pretty amazing feeling. It's been two weeks since you'd asked her, and the butterflies in your stomach still haven't settled about it. You tell your mom about her. You've never really told her about anyone you're dating. You never really cared enough to. But Brittany, you want to tell everyone about her. Your mom tells you she's happy for you. She wants to know when you're going to drive down and see her— and you better bring Brittany, she's adamant about that. You tell her not yet. Soon, maybe, but not yet. You love your mother, but she's a lot. She speaks rapid-fire, she switches between English and Spanish. You know she would never intentionally make Brittany feel put out, but, you want to make sure she's ready. Things are rocky with her own mom. You don't want them to be rocky with yours.

Jonas teases you. He complains you don't want to go out and help him pick up chicks anymore. He sing-songs about your girlfriend like he's seven. It doesn't make you want to punch him. It actually just makes you really smile. He wants to meet her. Your other friends want to meet her, when you go out for drinks with them. You can't stop talking about her, they tell you. And you know it's true. You're completely enamored with her. And you promise them. You promise them soon. Because you want her to meet them, too. You want her to be part of your whole life. You've never felt this way before. You think maybe it should scare you. But it doesn't. It doesn't scare you at all.

She gave you a painting. The butterflies. They were more out of control than they'd ever been before when she did that. You love it. You love it so much. You were afraid to bring it to be framed. Even though she promised you nothing would happen to it. Even though she promised that even if something did, she would paint you another. But it wouldn't be that one. It wouldn't be the one she made thinking about your favorite date. The date where you could see the sunset flicker in her eyes, the same colors that she'd managed to capture, somehow perfectly, in watercolors. So instead, she'd helped you frame it yourself, leaning over her kitchen counter, cutting the mat, and looking up, catching you staring at her. It hangs across from your bed now. It's the first thing you see when you wake up in the morning. It's the last thing you see when you go to bed at night. Sunsets and colors and universe eyes. Brittany. Always Brittany.

You decide to go to the beach. You haven't been all summer, and Brittany. She hasn't been there in years. Her eyes light up when you suggest it, and though you love to see that, it also makes you feel a little sad. It makes you feel sad, because you think of her family, and how— No. You've promised yourself you won't do that. You won't feel sad when something makes her happy. You won't dwell on her family. Because now she has you. Now she has you. You'll make her as happy as you can. No matter what.

Early in the morning, you wake up, because you try and keep your routine, even on weekends. You pack a beach bag, and you're excited. You're really excited, more so, because you know across town, she is too. You have towels and sunscreen and a big sheet and an umbrella loaded into the trunk of your car by eight am. Brittany told you that she would pack the cooler. You've noticed it, in these nearly two months, that she likes taking care of you. She likes inviting you over so she can cook you dinner. She likes getting up to refill your wine glass when it's empty. She likes giving you her sweater on cool nights, because you forgot to pack one. She likes kissing your forehead, and smiling against it. And you like it too. You like it a lot. You like it more than you ever thought you would. You've always been fiercely independent, but with Brittany. With Brittany, you feel yourself shifting.

When you were really young, your mom cleaned houses on Fire Island in the summer to make extra money. She'd take the train, and then a bus, and then the ferry to get there, all before the sun came up. She'd take you with her, every day, and you never complained. You loved the beach. You always did. You'd sleep in her arms on the way, and you'd wake up, in a little red wagon bumping along the wood-slatted walkway, surrounded by her cleaning supplies. She'd clean all day, and you'd find ways to occupy yourself. You'd pile left-behind shells on the big decks overlooking the bright blue ocean. You'd find board games and books and crayons on the rainy days. You'd imagine. You'd imagine that the house was yours. You'd imagine that your mom didn't have to go to work all day. You'd imagine that you had someone to come clean it for you. You'd imagine all sorts of things. And when you were done, it was okay. You knew that you were still lucky as you were. Your mom had told you that, that both of you were lucky, even before you could remember her saying that.

Cape May isn't Fire Island. But that's okay. It's only an hour and a half drive outside of the city, and it's pretty there. It's pretty, and Brittany told you that it's the beach she went to when she was young. You're surprised, when you pull up in front of her house, that she's already outside, sitting on the steps with Otis, cooler between her feet. You have to remember to breathe, when she stands up. She takes your breath away. She does it all the time. But now, now she's just, she's something else. Coming from underneath her white tank top and shredded jean shorts, you can see the strings of her bright purple bikini, and you know, you know that behind her sunglasses, her eyes are smirking. She knows you're staring. She can always tell, and yet, yet you just can't stop yourself. She's gorgeous. Greek statue worthy, you think—and you possibly told her that, at the Penn Museum, earning yourself a kiss, and a whole lot of teasing.

"Hey." She beams, when you open the trunk and get out of the car, coming up in front of her and kissing her lips. You bring your right hand up over your face, a grabbing motion, and she looks down, blushing. "You're going to make my head big, Santana."

"Well it's true, you are beautiful." You shrug. Her modesty is just. It's something else.

"You too."

You kiss her again. Letting it linger a little longer, this time. When you pull away, you roll your eyes and wave to Mr. Shapiro, looking out his window at you, like he seems to always be doing. You say hello to Otis, feeling bad that you neglected to, but he's quick to forgive, and he wags his tail, before climbing into your back seat. While Brittany buckles him in, ever cautious about his safety, you put the cooler in the trunk, and you just keep smiling, watching her through the rear window.

When you're back in the car, Brittany in the passenger seat, she surprises you. She always seems to be doing that. Out of her purse, she pulls a big metal thermos of coffee. Her coffee. The best coffee you've ever tasted. Even if you were giving a totally unbiased opinion. You swoon a little, at her sweetness. You swoon a little, because you don't know how she manages to make you fall faster, faster, with every passing second. It's just coffee. Except it's not. It's that taking-care-of-you thing she does.

You forget, the ninety-minute drive between Philadelphia and Cape May is on a good day. But it's a Saturday in August, so it takes you nearly two hours. You finish the coffee in the first forty-five minutes, Brittany sipping it occasionally, too. You love that. You love the rhythm you've fallen into. It's easy and right. It's different than any relationship you've been in. The best kind of different. When the coffee is gone, when you have full use of your right hand, Brittany finds it. She finds it, and she sets her own hand on top of it, lacing your fingers together. She does that whenever you're in the car now, and you love that too. You might love that most of all. You may not be able to communicate easily with words while you're driving, but you can communicate without them. Just the weight of her hand. Just the way her fingers fit between yours. It tells you oh so much.

When you finally get to the shore— it's still tough for you to say that, you're a New Yorker, you call it the beach— it takes a little while to find parking. You're so anxious to get out of the car, but the way Brittany's thumb rubs at the outside of your wrist, it calms you. You finally find one, and it's a decent walk from where you want to be, but it's okay. You're here. You've got Brittany. The sun is shining, she has her arm around her shoulder, and you think, it just might be impossible for your life to get any better.

Together, you spread out the sheet on the sand. She takes off her shirt, and you help her put sunscreen on her back. The feeling of your fingertips on her skin ignites something deep within you. You haven't taken your relationship to that level yet, but you've learned, you've learned in your weeks with her, that sometimes the most intimate touches aren't sexual. Sometimes the most intimate touches are ones like this. Or the ones where she squeezes your neck to calm you down after a stressful workday. Or even her handholds. No one else has ever been able to ignite you like this. And now that you've felt it, you can just never get enough.

You lie awhile on the blanket, side by side, just the tips of your fingers touching, and you love it. Otis lies on a towel beside Brittany. You both laugh, because he really doesn't like his belly in the sand. He reminds you of Brittany sometimes, the way he likes things a certain way, and you love that. You love that, because the understanding between them, it's magical. Lying there, it doesn't take you too long before you feel restless. You've always been like that. You can't just lie on the beach. The sun gets to you, and you need to be active or asleep, either one. But today, the butterflies don't let you sleep. So you ask Brittany to walk with you, and she nods, picking up Otis' leash.

The crowd of people thins out the further you walk, and those moments, where all you can see is open beach instead of a sea of beach chairs and umbrellas, they're exceptionally nice. Brittany lets the lead out on Otis' leash a little, something she rarely does. Though he doesn't like to lie in the sand, he certainly likes to run in it. He seems so carefree, she seems so carefree, and your heart feels light. You're glad you took the day out of the city. You're glad you have her in a place where she doesn't fear errant cars and people moving too fast. She relaxes into you, and you rest your head on her shoulder. It's perfect, the way you fit together, you think. She's perfect, the way she stops and picks up scallop shells to put in her pockets, the way she writes your initials with driftwood in the sand, the way she's just, yours, so uninhibitedly.

"Lunch?" She asks you, when you return to your blanket, and you just smile and nod.

She doesn't pack like you would, throwing deli sandwiches into a cooler. She has plates. She has sliced fruit. She has brie and chicken salad. She has lemonade that you know she made herself, and it's a close second to her coffee. You take such pleasure in these things about her. You take such pleasure in how she's so amazingly different from any other person you've ever met. You take such pleasure in how she's so amazingly different from you. And the butterflies, they must take pleasure in it too. They're riled up again. Over chicken salad. You think maybe it's a little ridiculous, but you don't care.

"Britt." You speak her name, and then you take your finger tips to your lips and bring them downward.

"No, thank you. I love it here. I'm glad you had this idea. I know the beach is special to you."

"Someday, hopefully, I'll take you to mine." You tell her, and you're surprised just how easily plans for the future slip out. But you're not surprised you're making them. You're not surprised at all.

"I'd like that." She gives you that smile in return. That smile where her bottom lip sticks out just a little, the happiest sort of disbelief, you think. It's surreal, for both of you, what you've become. But. It's beautiful. It's wonderful.

The conversation lulls as you eat. You're enjoying her honey and walnut chicken salad entirely too much to carry on a coherent conversation, and you think, you think maybe she's enjoying watching you eat it too much to try on her end. A laugh breaks free from her lips when you're just about done, and you raise an eyebrow at her, trying to figure out just what she finds so funny. She pulls both of her pointers toward her body, and you roll your eyes at her a little. She's teasing you with that sign. She told you when you started using it that you could just call her closer with the crook of one finger. But, you're learning another language, you'd told her, you want to be as accurate as possible. You lean in, you think she's going to kiss you, but then, she uses her thumb to wipe chicken salad from your bottom lip, and something, something happens inside of you. This strange shift. You're hit with an uncontrollable urge, and before you can stop to consider your words—

"I love you." It's clear. Entirely clear, your words. Entirely clear, the sentiment. It's like it broke free, and runs wild through your veins. You'd been falling, falling, but you'd almost forgotten toward what. It had been easy. So easy. Right. So right, that you hadn't seen it coming. And now you're here. The words are out. The words are out, and you feel them, so strong.

Brittany's eyes are wide, and that's when you suck your lips into your mouth. You're afraid you've scared her. You're afraid that maybe she'll think it's too fast. But. You can't unsay them. And you don't want to unsay them, because you can't un-feel them. Even if she doesn't. Even if she's not ready. You'll wait. You'll wait if you have to. You love her. That's what this is. That's what the butterflies were telling you. Maybe they'd been telling you since you met her. But now, now. You love her, and she knows.

"I—" She takes a minute. She closes her eyes, and you wait. You wait, and you hope. Even if you're okay not hearing them now, you still hope. Because you love her. You love this beautiful woman. This woman with universe eyes. This woman who, you think, sees more of you than you've ever let anyone else see. This woman who you know lets you see more of her. Slowly, slowly, she raises her flat palm, and when she pulls down her ring and middle finger, you gasp. You gasp, because she's saying it too. You gasp because she loves you too, and the butterflies get all caught up in your throat. "Love you too."

"You?"

"I." She nods vigorously, and you, you want to sign it to her. You want to sign it to her, even more than you want to speak it again. You do, and you see her eyes sparkle, heavy with those tears she gets when things get overwhelming. She takes your molded hand, and she, she brings it to her lips, kissing the bend of your fingers. It's perfect, perfect, and you bring your other hand to her face, imploring her to drop your hand so you can borrow her lips.

"I love you." You say again, but you say it into her mouth. You know she feels it as only a hum in her throat, but you know she feels your words.

You fall asleep. You fall asleep on your stomach, the next time you lie down. When your eyes flutter open, the first thing you see is Brittany. She has her head propped up on her hand, and she's watching you. She watches you so intently sometimes, that you think she repaints you in her mind. Brushstroke, brushstroke, on her tapestry of thoughts. Maybe you're being a silly romantic, but you can't help yourself. You think of her as music, and you hope, you hope, she thinks of you in her art form, too.

It's getting late. You know you've got a long drive home, but Brittany wants to put her feet in the ocean. You know she doesn't like the water much. You understand it. She doesn't take baths, and she's cautious of guard rails when you're by the river. But she wants to do this, she wants you to hold her hand while she dips her toes in the salty sea. And you do. You'll always hold her hand, because you love her— you can't stop thinking it. You love her. You love her, and you swell with pride when she leans on you, and she stands in that big raging ocean, letting the water come up to her knees. She looks beautiful like that. Hair swept up by the wind, eyes closed, cheeks a little tinged by the sun, and you have to close your eyes. You want that picture of her. Your brave, brave Brittany. You want that picture of her kept away in your mind forever.

She's fidgety on the way home. You can feel the way she squirms in her seat. You look at Otis in the rearview mirror, and you think he's unsure how to read her behavior, too. The traffic is a nightmare. You have to keep your eyes on the road, but you want to talk to her. You want to know that she's alright. You think, you think for several minutes, before you take her hand that holds yours, and you turn it palm upward. She doesn't realize what you're doing at first, maybe she thinks you're just drawing on her skin, but then, then it hits her. The letters you make. You're asking her if she's okay, and you see, out of the corner of her eye, the way she smiles. The way it somehow seems to relax her a little. The way she looks at you. That way that makes you feel more alive than ever before.

"I'm okay, promise." She speaks out loud, and you nod. "I just. Tonight. Stay the night with me, Santana."

The words catch you off guard. But you understand her nervousness. You understand her fidgeting. You understand, you think, what she's truly saying. She's letting you further in. She's taking another step. And even if it's just sleeping, sharing her bed with her, and nothing more, it's big. Her space is sacred, and she's let you in so much. Her space, her order, her routine, they're precious. But each and every day she fits you more inside. Each and every day, she lets her guard down more and more. You love her, and she loves you, and your worlds, they're twisting together. You nod your head, slowly, surely, and your pointer draws the letters into her skin, because you'll say it once, you'll say it a thousand times, in each and every way you know how. For her, for this thing you're building, the answer is always bound to be yes.