A/N: Prompt from lightbluenymphadora; Santemma - break up. I couldn't look at this anymore, so here you go. Thanks!
Santana's flipping through the channels on the living room television. Spread out on the couch, the only sign she's paying any attention to the other woman is the tightening of her fingers on the remote.
Emma's on the love seat next to her, hands in her lap. She's glancing at the TV and Santana and down at her knees in equal turns. The lines in her forehead are deep, her lips parted even as her tongue isn't daring to start tensing in anticipation of speaking.
The crackle of the television turning off snaps Emma's head up.
"Nothing's on," Santana mutters, but it's obviously not important, the girl chucking the remote control onto the coffee table a second later.
Emma winces at the noise. "Sa…" she finally manages.
"Oh, can it," Santana says flatly, eyes dark when Emma's meet hers; her lips are pinched, cheekbones strong as she obviously tries her best to look unaffected.
Emma flinches again, but doesn't move back, meeting Santana's gaze. "Santana."
Santana's hand moves up to her eyes, fingers splayed over her face. "Don't pretend you're not relishing this," she says lowly, an edge of defensive acid in her voice, "Being proven right."
"Santana."
"Because you – you're such an adult." Santana slams her hand down. "And me?" She laughs harshly, shoulders shaking, "I'm just a kid."
Emma closes her eyes. "You're barely eighteen – "
"And that's the problem." Snapping up, Santana stalks to her, pushing in with each arm on either side of Emma. "Isn't it?" she hisses, only a hair's breadth away from kissing her, the sound of tears seeping into her voice.
Emma stares at her. Her face white, cheeks reddening further as she breathes in shallowly, what's almost a whimper leaves her mouth when Santana's fingers suddenly brush against her jaw.
Exhaling heavily, Santana tries again. "Isn't it?"
A tear streaks down Emma's cheek. "I'm sorry," she whispers.
Santana's fingernails press into her jaw, a thick, pained humorous exhalation preceding the sudden jerk of her absence. "Thought so," she swallows, forced smirk splitting her face as she steps back, sweeping her arm towards the exit of the living room, the front door a hallway away. "Get out."
Standing, Emma reaches for her.
Santana deflects her touch. "Get out!"
Emma tries once more, but Santana pushes her away. "Get out!" she shouts, getting louder, "Get out!"
It isn't until Emma's on the front porch, unable to hold back the tears anymore, that she finally starts to accept that what she'd already known would happen, happened.
It isn't until Emma's on the front porch, unable to hold back the tears anymore, that she knows it's for the best.
It isn't until Emma's on the front porch, unable to hold back the tears anymore, that she pulls out her hand sanitizer, trying, as strongly as she can, to make herself as physically clean as she can.
Her mind, her emotions, and her happiness being something, after all, something else entirely.