Your Christmas and New Year pass in a soft sort of serenity. Santana, she's not much better for Christmas Day, though she tries. She tries, in spite of your insistence that she relax. You get it. You do. This Christmas, she's been waiting for it forever. And it sucks that she's feverish and exhausted. But you try to make it the best it can be. You eat dinner on the coffee table in the living room. You still use use the new tablecloth there, and light candles, while Maribel makes a fire. You snuggle with her. Kissing her extra, because you hate when she's sad. You exchange the small gifts you'd agreed to keep it to- though she promises one more, when she's feeling better. You give her mother gifts, too. And you have a little eggnog to celebrate. Because she swears the brandy will counteract the effects of the milk on her cold. Something you won't argue, because she cuddles into you after, feeling the buzz of it since she hasn't eaten much. She writes I love you's on your hands, and she falls asleep, just like that.

You stay in for New Year's Eve too, once you send Maribel back home. You stay in, and Santana. She feels much better. Together, you cook lobsters and tip back raw oysters. You drink champagne, you drink a lot of it. Because it feels like a big one. All the years since you met her do. All the years that lit up your careful existence. All the years you've loved. And as the hour turns late, she takes you in her arms in the bedroom. Her lips, they're bubbly from champagne. Your head, it's light. She puts your hand to her throat, and she lets you feel the music she sings. And the two of you, you and the woman you love more than anything, you slow dance in your pajamas as the year turns.

She takes you to Asheville for your anniversary. You'd told her last summer that you'd always wanted to go, that the paintings there are always so beautiful. So you go, just for a long weekend. She finds a small inn near the Biltmore Estate, and she drives down. You explore the little town. You visit the estate. She watches you paint, her smile beaming, as you do. You make love to her, long, slow, full of all the love that constantly rushes through your body. You fall asleep. With her head on your chest. Listening to your heartbeat, you think. While your hand rests over hers, feeling it, feeling the way it beats only for you. You can't believe it. But you've been married for a year. You're beginning the second year, and your heart, though you're close to sleep, it races. It races in your throat. In your fingertips. In the ends of your toes. It races everywhere. It always does with her. You're lucky, you're so incredibly lucky, and you hope there never comes a day when you forget to reflect on that.

The winter stays as wet as it had been in December, as January rolls into February. You occupy yourself with projects around the house. You finish another book, so your days are freer. Your weekday mornings, you fill them with organizing the things you've piled up in the third bedroom. Because. You just. You've been feeling a certain way since Christmas. And you just. You want to start doing practical things about the space. It's the way you prepare yourself. Prepare yourself for a conversation that you think you want to have. Soon. Soon. Your weekends, of course. You spend together. Mostly inside. Because of rain and sleet and general yuck. Saturdays, they involve putting up shelves. Framing photographs. Painting walls, because you'd wanted to wait until you'd lived in the house for a little bit before you chose colors. And Sundays. Sundays are always for early morning love-making. For finding new brunch spots— though it's gotten harder. You've had a lot of Sundays. For putting your pajamas back on mid-afternoon and lying together in front of the fire. Otis, on his back, soaking up the heat. You think. You think. You think. When you lie with her. You think so loud, you wonder if maybe she can hear. But you're not sure. About her hearing you. Not about the thing. The thing, you're more sure every day. With every kiss. Every touch. Every look. Every crinkly smile of hers. You're sure. So sure.

It's a rare dry Saturday in February. The day after Valentine's Day. You're just a little sore from the night you'd had, and you swear, you see color on Santana's her face as she wraps her arm around your waist. You're both bundled up, and Santana, she's wearing one of your hats, the flaps pulled down over her ears. You don't- you don't know how it's possible that you want to kiss her always. But you do. And you nuzzle the side of her face a little bit. You kiss her temple, and she stops, right in the middle of the park. She catches your lips, and you sigh into her mouth. She smiles when she pulls back, and she rubs her cold nose against yours, making you squeak a little.

"How do you even get so cold?" You purse your lips. And her tongue, she bites down on it and she shrugs.

Guess you'll just have to warm me up. Her eyebrows lift and you just, you press your hands against her cheeks, warming them too. And you kiss her nose.

"Better?"

Always. She signs it, circling, with her pointer, and you pull her scarf tighter around her. You rub your thumbs. Just a little more. On her cheeks. We're going to be late, if you keep distracting me.

"Sorry, Otis." You look down at him, and he lifts his ears up. You're taking him to the vet. You sort of feel the same way about his annual check ups as you do about yours. It's doctors, you guess. They just. They worry you. It's naive, maybe. But. But you don't want to know bad things. Even though you have to. And Otis, he's fine. He's fine, but he's still your best friend, your lifeline, your family. And you need it to stay that way. For a long time. Santana, she's good. She's so good. She knows what triggers your anxiety. And she squeezes your arms. She kisses you once more. She slips her hand into yours, twining your fingers. Giving you something to squeeze. "Let's do it. "

It's fine. It's all fine. As he always does, the vet tells you that your boy is healthy as they come. He's getting older, you know, maybe he's a little slower than he used to be. But that's okay, you're not very fast either. Your life isn't very fast. Your life isn't very busy. It's just the way you like it. And how Otis has learned to like it to. You feed him the best food you can. You protect his paws with his little boots. You make sure he's warm and safe and loved. But you still get chills every year. You get chills and now. Now your wife, she's there to rub your back. She's there to praise Otis with you. She's there. She's just there. And you love her, you love her more for that, just because of her presence in a room.

Santana. She insists on buying him a new toy after his visit. She's a goof. Really. But your dog, he loves her a lot, too. And not just because of the toys, you don't think. He loves her because she loves him. And because she loves you. He sees it, he's always seen it, that she makes you so happy. He sees it, and you think, you think, that his love for her, it comes as a result of his devotion to you. But still, she buys him a stuffed rabbit, and he nuzzles her hand. He appreciates it, and she gets down on the floor in the lobby of the vet's office to show him affection. Your heart thumps. Harder, harder against your ribs, watching that. She talks to him, and you know, you know, her voice must be soft. Because her eyes are crinkly, and you think, though you've never heard it, that maybe that's an indicator of her quiet voice. You think that, and, you can't help but think about it again. You can't help but think about the thing. The big thing. You just. You can't make yourself stop thinking about it. Your mind. Your heart. They've been a twisted web of all these things. And you— you're just— you're trying, trying. Trying to untangle all the webs. To organize your brain and your heart. Just like that bedroom. So your words, when you talk to her, they don't get all tangled up too.

What? She looks up from the floor. She sees that smile on your face. She see your thinking eyes, you're sure. Because she always sees you, and you just. You smile bigger. Because looking at her like that. It does so many things to your insides.

"You're just— you." You breathe in. You breathe out. Then you breathe in again. It's brewing. You feel it. Even in the tangles. It's brewing. And it's going to explode out of you. But not here. Not in front of all these people. Her fire eyes, they burn through you. But. She's good. She's so good, and she looks down. She knows that sometimes they make it hard for you to think. So she takes the pressure off of you by taking them off of you. "He just loves you."

I love him too. Always have.

"I know." You wonder, you wonder, if your voice sounds funny. It feels— it feels strained, maybe, in your throat. Like you said, you did know. It was one of the things that made you fall so hard for her in the first place. The way she just. She loved your dog. She didn't think you were weird for how you loved him, too. And for the faces she makes while she talks to him. The faces that remind you that she's going to be such a good— such an amazing—

Sweetheart, do you want to go? Santana feels it, maybe. The buzzling. Buzzing. Crackling. It's in the air. It has to be. Because your skin prickles. Shivers go up and down your spine. It's— anticipation? Maybe? You don't— you don't know the right word.

"Yeah. Yeah we." Tangles, tangles. You're ripping through them. You're yanking at them. You're. You're exposing these raw parts of you that hide behind them. Maybe. You don't know. This is all so strange. So new. "We should go. Yeah."

Her understanding of you. Maybe it won't ever stop amazing you. She doesn't push or prod or pry. She just asks you if you want to get some lunch. She accepts your nod, and, she slides an arm around your waist. She leans into you a little. Because she knows her presence comforts you. And. She isn't sure if comfort is what you need, but she just— she offers it to you anyway, if you want to take it. The certainty she makes you feel. It tugs at more tangles. Never. Never in your life. Have you felt any sense of certainty. Not until her. The world, it was scary and fast and confusing. The slow life you live, it felt caught up in it all. But she seems to slow it down somehow, or, maybe, when you look at her, you can ignore the rushing around you. Because you're safe from it. You're safe. Safe. And. You can do anything. She makes you feel that. Really. Like. Like you told Maribel. She empowers you. She teaches you to empower yourself. And so you want the things you never thought you did before. You want them, because you allow yourself to. Because you know you're capable of having them.

It's colder, when you leave. It's sunshine cold though. You love sunshine cold. It makes you feel alive, in a strange way. Santana, she lets you cover her face with her scarf. You don't talk anyway, while you walk. So you don't have to see her lips. Your coat, you pull tighter around you, and you take Otis' vest out of his bag, so he can get some warmth too. You don't even discuss where you're going, you both just walk to the same bistro where you always go. Brunch, you change up. Dinner, you change up. But for some reason, the place you go for your rarest meal out, it never changes. It's right around the corner from your house, and the staff, they know Otis, the staff, they've known him since he was a puppy. Because you've been going since you first moved to the city, and Santana, she has too. It was both of your place, before it was your place together. And something, something about that, it makes it feel sort of special.

The hostess shows you to your usual table. Santana's nose and cheeks are red, even from under her scarf. And the way she looks at you, you know yours are too. But you don't feel it. All you feel inside is burning, burning, burning. You don't— you don't know how to even begin this conversation. You want to, though. You need to. The desire at the pit of your being, it seems to grow every day. It grows faster than the fear about it. Though that— that grows, too. It twists and aches, it makes more tangles, while you tear them down. Santana though, she looks at you, she looks at you like you're everything, and the light in her eyes, it tries to temper those fears. It keeps you knowing, knowing. Knowing that you want this, you want this more than anything.

"I'm afraid to be pregnant." You blurt it out, right after the waitress takes your order, and then. Then you turn red everywhere. It— it wasn't what you meant to say. How you meant to start this conversation. But. It was on the tip of your tongue. And now, now you feel— you feel really twisty and strange. Your hands, they shake. But she reaches across the table. She takes hold of them. She steadies them. She steadies you. "That's not. It's not— I. I didn't mean to. To start this. With that. Can you— can I— Just. Start over?"

Brittany. Of course. Take your time. You think her eyes, they light. You're not sure, because she controls it well. But. She knows. She must know. What this is about, and— Your heart keeps racing. It's racing, and you're still trembling. Santana, she doesn't let go of your hands. She holds you. She keeps eye contact. And you take another deep breath.

"I've just. I. I've been thinking about what we talked about. On your birthday. A lot. So. So much. Since we moved into the house."

I have, too. She speaks when you pause. She bites her bottom lip. The fire, it flickers, in her eyes. Every time I pass the other bedroom.

"I've been really trying to. To organize the stuff in there. Because it's mostly mine, and. And I just want to finish and find real places for everything."

It looks really good, Britt. She plays with your fingers. She knows it relaxes you. Her touch. It'll be empty really soon.

"Few more weeks. I hope. I. Santana." You lean across the table, and you kiss her. Just. Just a soft, little one. You need it though. You need it to stop your head from spinning. You settle back down, and you press your hands against your own cheeks. She's not interrupting what you need to say. But she knows. She knows. "I think that I— I want to continue that conversation. Or. Start it, for real. If. If you're ready to talk about it too."

Sweetheart. Her features bloom like you've never seen them before. It's slow to spread across her face, but, the crinkle smile comes. Her dimples, they deepen. Her nose, it scrunches up. And she looks like she might start to— To glow. I'd like that a lot.

"Yeah?" Your heart rises up into your throat.

Yes. Yes for sure. I feel— She pauses, and she just looks at you. That look you love so much, again. That look like you're everything. I feel so settled, in our home, in our life. And it's the best feeling, Brittany, it's the feeling I lived my life waiting for, and now it's here. With you. And starting a family with you, that would just be the icing on the cake for me.

"I'm scared. I'm scared about a lot— About a lot of things." You confess, swallowing hard. You don't want your eyes to fill with tears. You're not sad, not at all. You're just very, very emotional. This is big. Huge. It's more than you ever believed yourself capable of. It's more that anyone believed you capable of, outside of your wife, and her mom. But you can't, you won't let fear hold you back. Not from this great big thing that you keep imagining. "I've never been so scared of anything, than to. To know I'll be a mom. That a little person is— Counting on me. But. I don't know if I've ever wanted something so much either."

Hey. Her hand, it detaches from yours, so she can cup the side of your face. So she can stroke her thumb over the apple of your cheek. So she can look. Deep. Deep. Into your eyes. I'm scared too. I've done a lot of things, but, I've never been a mom either. I think maybe you're supposed to be. I don't know. But everything you'll worry about, we'll figure it out together. We'll do it together.

"I don't know. How you want to— to do it. I love you. I love you so much. And I would do anything for you, really. But. I. I think I'd be too afraid to carry our baby."

I would never, ever want you to do something with your body that made you feel afraid, even for a moment. Britt. Sweetheart. If us going through pregnancy and childbirth together is something that's important to you, I would carry our baby any day.

"If—if it's important to me? But what about you?"

That was never something that was important to me. What I always thought I would do was— adopt a baby, maybe. I know that, that my mom kept me, but, it would have made her life a lot less difficult if she'd given me up. And I know that sometimes, she used to wonder if my life would be better if she had. She sucks her lips into her mouth. She gets teary-eyed, like she does, always, when she talks about her mom. About the difficult choices she'd made. About how they both became who they are. I just, I don't know, I like the idea of being a mother to someone whose biological parents couldn't keep them. For whatever reason. But I'm open, really, Britt, if that's not something you want.

"Santana." Your chest aches. From the way your heart swells. Because her heart. It's just so big. So full of generosity. And you love her. You love her more. You love her so much that you can hardly handle it. "I don't. I don't care how we get a family. I just. Care that I'm having it with you. But will they—" You stop and you close your eyes. Collecting yourself. "Will they let us. Let us adopt? With my, brain, and, not being able to hear?"

Britt, look at me. You are going to be an absolutely amazing mother. Your hearing, your brain injury, it doesn't impact your ability to love and to care for a child. I want you to remember that, okay?

"I'll love them so much, Santana. I'll never let them feel like. Like they're not good enough. Or they don't belong. Or—" You feel the tears, as they begin to stream down your face. The gravity of what adopting would mean to you, who'd been cast off by your family not because they couldn't care for you, but because really, they didn't think you were good enough, hitting impossibly hard.

I know. I know you won't. She wipes the tears from your cheeks, and she gives you another soft kiss. You will be as good a mother as anyone else. No, better. I see you. You're made to be a mom. You're a nurturer, a caretaker, and you have this love in your heart that you want to give. You'll be the best there is. You'll teach them sign. And to paint. And to cook. We have so much research to do, before we can even begin. But, who you are, that's not going to change our ability to adopt a child. I promise you that.

"Okay." You exhale. All the emotions of the conversation hitting you hard. Santana stand up, her own emotions written all over her face, and she slides into your side of the booth. She wraps her arms around you. She holds you, and you hold her back. Because this decision you just made. It's life-changing. This decision you just made. It's everything. "And you will be too, Santana. So. So wonderful, as a mom."

Thank you. She ducks her head, and she blushes. So you kiss her cheeks. I hope so.

"I know it's true." You look into her eyes, your body feels warm, so warm. And you smile, the biggest smile maybe ever. "So we're. We're going to start trying to be moms?"

Yeah, Sweetheart. We absolutely are.