The rest of the year, it passes quickly. So quickly. You can't believe it, really. As you have Christmas Eve breakfast with your family, Santana with her fist gripping your hand under the table, because you hadn't wanted to go, but— as you spend the rest of the day and night, just the two of you and Otis. Exchanging gifts under the tree in your apartment. Under the tree you'd decorated together, drinking marshmallowy hot chocolate. As you twist limbs together in bed and wake up early, so early on Christmas morning. As you drive back up to New York to have Christmas dinner with her mom. As you spend the night, and Santana, she takes you in the morning to see the big tree, the decorations all over the city, the magic. You're just. Overcome. It's your holiday season, but. It's more. So much more. It's your magic. Your awakening, and, you just, you're still pinching yourself. Making sure it's real.

On New Year's Eve, she takes you for an early dinner. You start sipping champagne, you sip champagne all night. She holds you tight when you take her ice skating. You take her there, to the RiverRink, because you'd promised her the best view of the fireworks. You don't disappoint. You count down together, eyes on each other, more than the sky. You count down together. Four. Three. Two. One. Wrapped in each other's arms. Wrapped in each other's, everything. The bursting colors over the Delaware River, they paint her face. Her smile. Crinkly-eyed. Sparkling. All dimples and teeth. You know, you know, you'll need to get it on paper some time. You know, you know. It's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. But then. Then she kisses you. Hands on cheeks. Champagne bubbles on lips. And you close your eyes. You squeeze them shut. You don't even know why. But. You do. And instead of fireworks, you see the future. You see your future with her. Santana. You see fifty more new years. All spread out in front of you. Waiting. Waiting. And you realize, the beauty of the fireworks. It doesn't even compare.

She hates winter mornings. Her joy about the extra hour of morning light, it wanes as the days get colder. She grumbles when she gets out of bed. She grumbles when she gets in the shower. She grumbles when she kisses you goodbye. And no amount of kisses makes her grumbling cease. So you pack her extra coffee. Sometimes you make muffins, or scones, or sticky buns, and you pack them the next day too. She always texts you to thank you then. Kisses and love hearts litter your screen. Kisses and love hearts for you, even when she's grumbling. Real kisses and love hearts when she comes home, cheeks cold and red, hands cracking, to find you hard at work painting. Because even through all her cold weather grumbles. She smiles. She smiles for you.

You notice. She calls your house "home" sometimes, and you notice. You spend fewer and fewer nights apart. And you wonder. You wonder, on those separate mornings after, how much she grumbles then. Because you might not do it out loud, but when you don't wake up with her, you feel extra-grumbly, too. When you don't wake up with her, you feel like a little part of you is missing. Like your coffee tastes a little different. The paint colors don't look quite right on your paper. Like your body is a little. Off balance, maybe. You think about it a lot. You think about it, and you find yourself wondering, considering.

It's an exceptionally cold Friday in February. A wake up alone day. You sleep in a little bit, finally, reluctantly, rolling out of bed when Otis nudges at you to take him outside. It's bitter. Your nose burns. Your lips burn. You think even your hair burns. You make coffee, and you climb right back in your bed when you get inside. You rub Otis' cold paws, and you catch the end of Santana's show. Really, you want to stay under the covers all day. You want Santana to come over and crawl in with you. You want to cuddle away each other's grumbles. But. You can't. You need to get back up. You need to do adult things. Time doesn't stop just because it's winter.

You paint. You close the shades on your big window, because the white and silver world is distracting to your work. You're painting mud. For a book about a little boy who decides to make mud pies in the kitchen. You don't like mud, you don't like mess, but, you find you're getting lost in the paintings. You dibble dabble drop browns and reds and yellows on the paper. You stroke your brush through the grey, and you paint a rainstorm. You imagine springtime and the rain bringing new flowers. You imagine huddling under umbrellas with Santana and kissing beneath stormy clouds. You imagine, and you're so distracted in your head, that you don't notice the flashing red light above the door. You don't notice, until Otis appears at your side, and he nudges you in reminder.

"Santana." You smile, when you open the door. You smile, until. Until you see how utterly miserable she looks, her hair wild, her eyes bleary, her back hunched over.

Fucking winter. She groans, turning around so you can see the soaked tops of her thighs, and then turning back to dial up the pout. I slipped on the sidewalk, I'm pretty sure I have a bruise the size of a small European country on my ass, and there was no hot water in my apartment this morning.

"Again?" You frown, but then, then she looks so downtrodden, that you have to run your thumb over the crease in her forehead, and give her a soft, lingering kiss on her lips. You think she sighs a little bit. You're not sure. But. Sometimes she needs kisses to make her feel better. And, you're always happy to oblige.

Britt. I probably smell. I was not getting in that ice bath.

"Hey." You take her hands. You rub your thumbs on the inside of her wrists. Like she does for you, when you feel anxious, or frustrated, or basically— basically anything, it works for. "You totally don't. But. Even if you did, I'd still kiss you."

I love you. She smiles. Just a little. But. She smiles, and you pull her closer. I hate not waking up with you. It totally makes me day suck. Even when I have hot water and don't fall on the ice.

"I hate it too." You pause. You just, watch her a little. Her fire eyes, burning into you. Her fire eyes love you so much. "But. How about, you take a hot shower and steal more of my clothes—"

Not steal, borrow.

"Okay, borrow without the intention to return, more of my clothes, and I'll clean up my paints and we'll take a bed nap, so we can restart the day waking up together?"

Oh, God, Britt. You had me at hot shower.

She takes a long time in the shower. She always does, but, when she's cold, she'll stay in even longer. She tells you she likes to melt the ice out of her veins. And you laugh, you always laugh at that, because she's tough and strong and so put together. But sometimes, when it's just the two of you, she lets herself be a little dramatic. Sometimes, when it's just the two of you, she'll let herself whine about things that she'd never complain about otherwise. The things she'd never, ever in her life thought to complain about before. Because you. She knows you love to take care of her, and warming up your cold girlfriend, that definitely falls into that category.

You make grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. You forget that it's way past lunchtime, until you feel the rumbling in your stomach. And Santana, she must be hungry too. You've learned that she likes lunches like this. You could easily make her something fancier, but, she's told you under the covers that grilled cheese was her second favorite food, after bologna sandwiches, and before peanut butter on toast. She's told you that, and, when she has a long day, or a bad day, or she just needs a little extra loving, you're always sure to pick from that list.

Just as you're putting the food on the table, she appears in the kitchen. She'd found a pair of her own yoga pants, ones she'd left after a class a few weeks back. But she's got your oversized Phillies sweatshirt on, hood up and everything. She's totally playing up the cold. She's playing it up, and you love it. You also love her in that sweatshirt. Your girlfriend. A lifelong Mets fan, in your Phillies sweatshirt. It goes on your list of favorite things. It goes on your list of reasons why Santana Lopez is the most adorable human being in the world. You like lists. A lot. You're always making them. But, this one, it's the best of them all. This one, you're sure, will never stop growing.

Thank you, she signs, and slips into a chair. The best.

"Always for you. You look like you need it after your morning."

I'm sorry I was so dramatic. But, I feel a little better now.

"How's your butt?"

Fine, as always. She winks at you. And when she winks, you know she's really better. When she winks, you can't help the smile that comes to your face. It's not as bruised as I thought. Which, considering the last thing I want to do is ice it, is the best news ever.

"You." You lean over and kiss the tip of her nose. Because, just because. She's there, and, you missed her this morning. And because you can. "Are the cutest."

And you are the best. And I missed you too.

You don't talk much while you eat. She's enjoying her soup more than you think any person has ever enjoyed canned soup, and you. You're just, really enjoying watching her. She looks like a little kid, buried in your hoodie. A little tomato soup on her chin. Buttery bread crumbs on her fingers. You always make her grilled cheese with those bright orange cheese squares. Because that's how she likes it. She likes pulling the triangles apart, and you know, that's one of your most favorite things about her. It's the way she appreciates the smallest things in the world. The way she makes them all feel like big things. Good big things. The very best. It's why you don't need to talk. Because the conversations you have without words, they're everything.

She yawns, stretching her arms over her head when she finishes. You realize how exhausted you are, too. You never sleep as well when she's not around. And you think, you think, it's because when you made a space for her in your life. In your home. In your bed. When she's not in that space, there's a weird emptiness. The thing that makes you feel off balance. The thing that makes your coffee and your paint colors weird. But she's back now. She's back, and. You just want to restart the day as much as she does. You're not even sure why you have those apart nights. Maybe just because you're supposed to, or something. You're not sure, and. And it doesn't really seem like it makes all that much sense at all.

Together, you fall into your bed. Santana, she tucks her front into yours. She likes to sleep like that too, sometimes. The two of you, you shift your sleeping positions a lot. Sometimes you're on your backs, her head under your chin. Sometimes you hold her from behind. But. This one, it's your favorite. Her head, under your chin. Her breath, on your neck. Her hand, falling to rest on your hip. And your hands. You push back her hood with one. You love to run your fingers through her long, nearly black hair. Your other one, it slips up underneath the sweatshirt. She's not wearing anything beneath it. No barrier between your skin and hers. You smile into the top of her head. You map her skin with your fingers. You feel her breath hiss out against you when you graze the tender, bruised flesh of her lower back. And you gentle your touch, rubbing it carefully, trying to take away the sting.

You fall asleep, and you don't set an alarm. It's Friday. It's Friday, and you have the whole weekend ahead of you to get back to your normal sleep patterns. It's Friday, and you want to waste the whole afternoon in bed with her. Because she's soft and warm. And it's cold outside. And this, this is just, it's perfect. You sleep, uninterrupted, until your body is ready to wake up again. When you do, she's awake already. Her fire eyes. They're on you. She's been watching you sleep. And. Your heart. It just. Flips. Flops. You don't know why, but, you love that she does that. You love that she finds you interesting enough to just stare at you, when you're doing nothing but lying and breathing.

Hey, sleepyhead. Her lazy smile, the way she tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. You could just, lie this way. Forever. You don't see the sun, low in the sky outside the window. You don't see anything. Anything but her. Her and her fire eyes. Her and her sleep soft face.

"Hi. This is a much better way to wake up."

I agree on that. Let's stay here all weekend. Maybe Otis can learn how to open the door and carry takeout to us. Then we never have to get out of bed.

"Move in with me." You say it. You hadn't planned it. Not at all. But. But you say it, and. You say it, and, you don't want to take it back. Because— if she lives with you. You won't have apart nights and lonely wakeup mornings. It'll be you and her, and your dog. This space. This space you made for her. She'll fill it, and—

Really? Her eyes are wide. So wide. Not fake smile wide. But. But, really, truly surprised wide, and. You see the way her fire eyes flicker. It's not scared surprised, you don't think. It's, maybe yes surprised, but—

"Really." You think your voice is probably really soft, because it's hard to find. But, you hope it sounds sure. Because you are sure. More than anything sure. You. You with your order and your routine and your personal space. You want this. You want this so much more than you've ever wanted anything. You want Santana. In every way. "If you want to. I mean. My hot water hasn't run out ever. But. But that's not even the point. I just. I just want— I don't, I don't— I, I don't know about rules or, about—"

Brittany. She says your name. And then. Then she kisses you. Then she kisses you for a long, long time. Hands tangled in hair, hands pulling you closer, closer. And, you have to pull away, because. Because your heart races in your chest. It doesn't know how to slow down. Because you just, you need to make sure, before you get too excited. Santana. She sees it. Santana. She sees everything. Her eyes crinkle. Her dimples. The first time you've seen them today. They're back. They're back, and— Yeah, Britt, I think I'd really, really like that. Living with you. I think, I'd really like not having to go home because I run out of clothes here. I, wow, this would be my home.

"That's the idea, yeah." You think you might start to cry. You just, you feel so happy. This unexpected thing. It's. It's what you've been waiting for, you think. Even though you couldn't put your finger on it. You have now, and. And wow. "Me and you, and Otis, too."

Of course, Otis. She laughs. She closes her eyes, and she laughs. Because, she'd come to your house, all Santana Lopez and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. But, now, now in your bed, the bed that's going to be both of yours, she's laughing. She's laughing so hard, because she's so happy. That sounds perfect. Yes, yes I'll move in with you.