The approval of your home study, it comes quickly. You're having lunch with Jonas and his now-serious girlfriend less than two weeks after, when Dina calls you, and you and Brittany, you end up in the ladies room of the restaurant, so you can talk to her. When you tell Brittany what she'd said— though she knew, she knew, from your face, from your little hops, while you were on the phone— you muffle each other's squeals of excitement with kisses. Jonas, he knows you've chosen to adopt. You'd told him obviously, when you'd asked him to write you a reference letter, but still, the specifics of all of it, you're keeping them to yourselves. Only your mother knows, really. Only your mother knows, because you and Brittany both, you'd decided that as you continue your journey to motherhood, the support of an actual mother, your actual mother, it's important to you. But everyone else, you're waiting, waiting. Because it could be months. It could be years even, before the dream becomes a reality, especially considering you're same-sex parents, and when it comes to birth mothers, you might not be a first choice, and you just can't bring yourselves to discuss it with anyone else.
The fall passes in its usual manner, apple picking, pumpkin picking—- both Brittany's at home, and a few big ones to decorate your stoop that you'd picked when you'd gone out to Lancaster for the day— festivals and the like. And the Christmas season follows at the same speed. All throughout, you and Brittany, you work on your baby lists. You join a Rittenhouse Square parents' board online, as silent members, for now, just to be able to see recommendations of doctors, of products, since it seems like the best way to decide what to even look at. You drive to Buy Buy Baby occasionally. You test out strollers and carriers. You nitpick the safety of them. You take an infant and child first aid class, at Brittany's suggestion, because she knows, and you know too, that CPR, it's a must-know in your home, that CPR, it saved your wife's life all those years ago. And then you wait, you wait, as patiently as you can. You wait, and you enjoy the company of just each other— as you always do, really.
You spend Christmas in Queens. Your mom wanted to do it this year, and you're happy to let her. You see a few of her friends. This is the first time you've met them, since she usually wants all her time with you to herself. But it's nice, it's nice to see that she has her own things going on, and it's nice, the way they're so kind and welcoming to you and Brittany both— though they do that fast-talking Queens thing, the thing you've really trained yourself out of, mostly, and you sign as quickly as you can for Brittany, keeping her in touch with the conversation. It's a nice holiday really, but, you're actually anxious, afterward, for some alone time with Brittany. Because the lead up, it's always such a chaotic time for you, with your fundraising and your shopping and your dinner. It was perfect, you think, that you and Brittany had chosen to get married when you had, since it builds in your anniversary at the best possible time. It gives you an excuse to decompress, to enjoy each other's company, when in the months before, it's hard for you to do that.
She plans it this year. Neither of you ski, but she finds a tiny resort in Vermont. Something about it, she's drawn to, and you think it's great. You think, being in the wilderness, surrounded by snow, it's the perfect, peaceful place to mark the beginning of the third year of your marriage. So you pack. You pack your warmest things. Flannel and thermal everything. Otis' boots. A parka that Brittany found for him, because he's getting older, and she likes to make sure he's as warm as he can be. You pack your favorite champagne, in case you can't find it there, and you get in the car, you make the long drive up, arriving just after dark on the first of the year. You check into your room, a little cabin, actually, and your breath, it's stolen by the effort your wife put in. Your breath, it's stolen by the arrangement of flowers on the table, your favorites, peonies and lilies. Your breath, it's stolen by the big bed, the inviting fireplace where Otis finds a place to lie, to warm up, the simple romance of the place, in a way that really reflects your relationship with Brittany. Soft, warm, not at all showy, and once the concierge leaves you, showing you how to light the gas fireplace on his way out, you pull your wife to you, you kiss her, you kiss her with everything in your very soul.
You like it? she signs to you, her joy, creeping to the corners of her mouth, and you nod. You nod emphatically.
Love it. Love you. You brush your thumb over the shell of her ear, and you kiss her again. You work the zipper of her coat, you just, don't even know what to do, because she's overwhelmed you, with what she's done. And her eyes, those universe eyes, they're so full of excitement, that you feel like you're truly reeling. Perfect.
"I'm glad. I asked them to set up the flowers."
"I figured." You laugh. You laugh because she's so sweet. You laugh because she's so earnest. You laugh, just because you've been married to this perfect woman for two years, and she's the greatest thing that's ever happened to you.
"Rose petals seemed. Too cheesy. But. They said they would, if you want them."
"I don't. The flowers are beautiful, sweetheart, and if you would have had rose petals, I wouldn't have thought it was cheesy because it's you. But right now, I don't want anyone coming in here and spreading them, because, I think there's something I'd much rather be doing."
What's that? she signs, a rare glint of mischief in her eyes.
"You." You press your lips to hers, and the word hums against them, vibrating, vibrating in her throat. She doesn't need to see it to know. She feels it, in the tug of your teeth on her bottom lip. In the way you shrug your coat off your shoulders and work her zipper again. And she smiles. She smiles into her mouth. The gasp, catching as you press your body into hers.
You leave your suitcases packed where they'd been dropped by the door, and your clothes, they're left in a trail to the bedroom. For only seconds does your mouth leave Brittany's, while tugging off sweaters and the thermal shirts beneath them. There's something, something, that stirs you, more than your wife's mere presence normally does, and the butterflies, they go wild within you, making your whole body vibrate with their fluttering wings. Brittany, she somehow manages to pull loose the bedspread, and she tumbles down on downy sheets, still holding you in her grasp. She feels it, too. The love that makes her heart pound, erratic, but sure, so sure, against her ribcage and into yours. She feels it, you can tell, and then there's nothing that separates you as you straddle her hips, weaving hands through golden locks.
The way she looks at you, universe eyes, deep, dark, endless, as she fills her lungs with air, you think sometimes, you won't survive it. It's something, something that you know, few are lucky enough to experience. Unbridled love. Unbridled trust. This intimacy that twines your very souls together and leaves you forgetting where you end and she begins. Those eyes, they draw you in like nothing else, and you kiss her, kiss her until she's breathless. You kiss her, kiss her, as she presses the flat of her hand to your throat, feeling your pulse, feeling your gasps, feeling your reverberating moans, just from the contact of her warm skin on yours. This girl. Your girl. She's something else. She's the very best of everything you've ever known. This girl, you married her, on a snowy winter day, two years ago, and in every day since, you've loved her more.
When you kiss her neck, she whines. High pitched, carnal, desperate, already, and the way she's unabashed in her want, you can't describe what that does to you. You can't describe the way it makes you shiver with arousal, from the ends of your hair, right down to the very tips of your toes. To know, to know, that you can have that effect on someone, that very same effect she has on you, it's ethereal, almost, and it spurs you further. Because each and every time you make love to your wife, you know the bliss it brings. So you kiss her skin, you taste all that is truly Brittany, and you draw love hearts on her sides with your fingers. You slide lower, lower, until you're between her legs, and you push her knees so they lie flat against the bed beneath you. She shudders then, she always does, desire taking over her, when she's exposed to you, only you, in her barest form. And you stop, just for a moment. You stop, so you can find her hand, you can squeeze it, you can bring it to tangle in your hair. There's something about that for you, giving her this sense of control, the control she never takes advantage of, and she strokes your face, strokes your face so softly with the other. The love and trust that courses between you, the very foundation of your marriage.
"So beautiful." She whispers, though you're not sure she even knows she's said it. She's in this state she gets in. Almost out of body, you think. Flushed, prickled skin, those universe eyes, with pupils so wide they're like black holes, and her limbs, trembling, shaking, seeking. Seeking you, seeking that much needed contact.
And you give it to her. You take her hand from you face, and you kiss the palm of it. For just a few seconds, you let that kiss linger there, before you settle it at her side. And you lift her hips up to you. You bring your mouth down upon her. You bring your tongue through her center, and you taste her. It makes you lightheaded, dizzy almost, that combination of your own arousal rushing through your veins, and tasting hers, and you hum, you hum in pleasure against her, making her shiver all the more. You work her up, and you don't stop, you can't stop. Not as you watch her eyes fight to stay open, not as her fingers in your hair wind tighter, tighter, grasping, but never pulling. Not as her whines become more animalistic, reverberating through the very center of your being. Not as she comes undone, shaking, crying out. You just slow then. Your frantic motions, they turn gentle, soothing, as you bring her down, as you feel her fingers loosen, as you watch her, spent, collapse against the down pillows.
She pulls you up to her. She aches, she aches— she's told you before, shy, blushing, stumbling over her words— to taste herself on your lips. And you comply. You lie over her, your dark hair, tumbling down to curtain your faces as you kiss her, and her tongue parts your lips, mapping the inside of her mouth. You feel it then, her shift, you feel her body rejuvenate, almost, beneath you, as your nipples brush hers and your hair tickles her neck. You watch the lazy universe in your sight turn vibrant again, as she rolls on top of you, as she doesn't hesitate to spread your legs, to seek out your wetness with her fingertips. She's possessed, almost, with the need to make you feel good. But, you already do. You already feel so good, from unravelling her. You're already so aroused, that you think, maybe, you'll come undone before she dips inside of you. She knows this, she sees it, you know, in your eyes. She feels it, where her hand presses again to your throat, the vibrations of your every plea running through her body. So she doesn't waste time. She presses two fingers inside of you. She curls them fast, and you hiss. You hiss against her neck and she feels it. She feels it, and she repeats her motion, making you cant your hips up. Pleading, pleading without words for her to never stop.
You're unsurprised by how quickly you come, your thighs tightening, trapping her forearm between them. You gasp and pant, your skin, sweaty, sticky, and your mind, somewhere far off, somewhere that the universe sparkles blue. You don't realize it, but you fall asleep. Or, you pass out, more likely, your legs twined around Brittany's waist, your forehead pressed against hers. And she holds you, she holds you tight, still inside of you, like she'll never let you go. When you wake up again, you don't know how much time has passed. It's still dark, you know that much, but Brittany is lying on her side. Her fingers, they trail up and down your bare side, and a blanket covers you both. She looks at you, your beautiful wife, she looks at you, the way she does, only in bed. Because her eyes, her universe eyes, they're always full of love, but they're something different when she lies on her side, watching you sleep, or almost sleep, or wake, depending. They're a special kind of adoration, and you barely have your eyes open when your lips curl up into a tiny smile, your body warm, warm, warm, and not from the blankets that she's covered you with.
"Hi, sleepy." She murmurs, her voice scratchy, sexy. She doesn't stop the tickling of her fingers on your side, and you maybe, maybe purr, just a little, because you love that feeling, you love it a lot. You tap your wrist and you scrunch up your face, making her smile. She just, still takes pleasure in your signs, she's told you as much, and though her giggles used to make you self-conscious about it, they don't any more. She's not teasing, not at all, she's just, really happy. "Little after eight."
"Bad time of day to take a nap. Did you sleep at all?"
"No, just laid with you. You looked so relaxed and pretty."
"Britt." Your eyelids, they flutter, and your chin tucks a little. "You could have woken me up."
"I. I thought about it. A little." She bites her lip, thinking, and you kiss her chin, encouraging her to free it from her teeth. She's thinking, considering, you know, and you give her the time, just a little, it's all she needs, to gather her thoughts. "There's a. A meteor shower, tonight. I looked it up, because it's so dark up here. But you look so warm. And cozy, I didn't— I didn't want to ask you to get out of bed and go out in the cold."
"Did we miss it?" You feel your eyes widen, and your heart, it sinks a little. Because you know, you know, how much she loves the sky. How much she loves the stars. And you wish, you wish she'd woken you sooner.
"We didn't." Her smile, it's soft, and she kisses away the deep creases in your forehead. "The most of it. It'll be after eleven. But. We don't have to go, Santana. If you're comfortable here."
"I am comfortable here." Your stomach, it growls, and you wonder, you wonder if she feels it against hers. "But I'll also be comfortable outside, with you. Remember the falling stars, the night you proposed?"
"Yes. I thought. It might be extra nice. Because it's our anniversary. In just a few hours."
"It sounds like the perfect start to our next year of marriage." You watch, you watch her eyes dance, and you brush her bangs away from her face. You groan, just a little, when you shift, and realize, her other hand is still tucked between your legs, and her cheeks, they tighten and they turn pink, until you kiss them, over and over again. "Might be too cold for a picnic this time though, so we should eat dinner first."
While you get dressed, you're particularly touchy. Maybe it's your anniversary that does it, or maybe, maybe, it's just the quiet of your little cabin, the coziness, that fills you will an amplified need to have Brittany close to you. You pull on knee socks and leggings and jeans. You bury yourself in Brittany's sweatshirt, the one that conveniently found its way into your suitcase, and your ever-efficient wife, she manages to unpack and organize everything, in the time you spend in the bathroom, taming your mane of hair and brushing your teeth. You slip into her arms when you come out, burying your face in her neck, just, standing there, needy for her embrace. It's your favorite place in the world, that there's no denying. Because her kisses, they're perfect, her lovemaking, it takes you places you've never been, but the way she hugs you, it just, wraps your whole being, heart, body and soul, in this safety, this security, that you find yourself unable to explain.
Once you're covered in your warm weather clothes and your boots are on, Brittany hooks Otis' leash on, and she slips an arm around your waist, locking up the cabin and leading the way to the lodge. You eat your late dinner quickly, and Brittany, prepared, fills a thermos with hot chocolate. The hill she brings you to, it overlooks the ski slopes, and the black sky stretches out above you. Together, you spread a blanket out on the hard packed snow, and you lie down on it together, Otis huddling in with you for his own warmth. You play with Brittany's fingers, you write on her hand, telling her you love her, and you wait, you wait for the universe— the one above you, not the one in your wife's eyes— to burst before you. It's slow at first, when it does, lone stars streaking across the sky, and then, then there's so many, all at once. It's funny, you think, the way you've grown to love them, these things you'd never even thought to look at before, not until Brittany.
"Happy anniversary, Santana." You feel her mumble into your hair, and you shift your body, you shift it and prop your head on your hand, so you can see her face, so she can see yours. Her eyes, they're bright, and you think, you think, there might be tears in them. Tears that make you swallow hard, because being out here, in the snow, under the blanket of raining stars, with the woman you love in this way that shakes the very core of your being, you feel extraordinarily emotional. "These years with you. They're. They're the best. In my whole life. I just—" She pauses, but, you don't speak. You let her continue, because you know she wants to say things. And you do too, but, you'll wait. You'll wait your turn. "It's. I don't know. If funny is the word. But, I always liked the stars. I'd sit in the yard. At my parents' and look at them for hours. Because my mom didn't notice much, if I stayed out there late. The universe. It just seemed, so big. And so far away. But then. Then I met you. And I know, you have all your love words. You tell me the universe, it's— it's in my eyes. For me though. I see it in you. In your everything. You brought this thing that felt so. So far off that it almost wasn't real to me. You made it even bigger than I imagined. I just. I love you, Santana. I love you so big and so much and so. Just. Infinitely. Maybe. Maybe that's the word I need. Because. There's not— not a beginning, or an end. It's there, everywhere. And now it's after midnight and today. Today's the day we got married. So we're celebrating. I celebrate every day though. Because you, you just made my life this wonderful, magical thing."
"Sweetheart." You blink, you blink rapidly, the cold stinging your wet eyes. Because the thing about your wife, is that every single word she speaks, it takes her longer to create than anyone else. A speech like that, it means more than anyone else's ever could. And not just because you love her, love her, love her, more than you think it's even possible to love another person. And there's nothing you can even say that will compare, or even come close, really. So you kiss her instead. You kiss her, because it's the only response you have. You press your cold lips to hers, and you take her in. "You're something special, my amazing wife. I'm glad that you and me, we get to share this universe we created."
"It's a really good one." Her laughter, it mixes with tears, and you wipe them from her cheeks, not wanting them to freeze there.
"The best one. The day I met you was the most amazing day of my life, and then, I married you, and that was an even better one. And in the future, I think there's going to be one that tops even those two."
"Yeah. You're. You're right about that." She gets dreamy, dreamy in her eyes, just for a moment, before she comes back to reality. "But until then, we're going to enjoy every minute. Just. Just the two of us."
"We are. And you're spoiling me with this weekend, I think."
"I just. I wanted. Something really nice for us. We've been putting all of our money into the house. And the Little Lopez fund." Her lips purse, barely noticeable, like they always do, when she says Little Lopez, and your stomach, it erupts with the butterflies. It doesn't matter how many times you talk about it, it still makes you giddy, so giddy. "But. I thought we deserved a few days. Away from the city, and work. Just, everything but us. And. I got that bonus, taking on this new book series contract. So. I wanted to indulge, just a little. For this."
"I'm glad you did, Brittany. I may have, indulged just a little too." You push yourself up, watching her watch you. You reach inside your coat, and you unzip the pocket there. You search blindly inside, until you find metal, warm from your body, you think, though you can't feel through your gloves, and you slide it out. Brittany's eyes, they widen, and she squeaks, one of those impossibly cute noises she makes, when she sees the ring you'd tucked away in there at the mention of stars. "I know that I've talked about buying you a diamond too before we moved, and you kept saying to put the money into the house instead. But I started thinking about it again when we got approved for adoption, and I just thought, this was the time. This year, this anniversary."
"Santana." She from the ring, to you, that way she does. That way that makes you feel so warm all over. "You. You didn't have to do that."
"I know. But I wanted to. I wanted to two years ago, and I probably should have, even though you told me not to, but now I get my moment under the night sky to give you a ring too."
"You're too much sometimes, you know." She lets you slide her glove off and her ring on above her wedding band, admiring it, until the cold proves too much. You take it between your gloved hands, and you warm it up, letting her look once more at the diamond, sparkling in the light of the night sky, before you cover it up again, and you lace your fingers with hers, her hand, made to fit in yours. "It's— it's perfect. I love it. And I love you. I love you so much."
"And I love you, my Brittany. Happy two years, Sweetheart."