XLII

Brittany stirs and frowns and wakes up for a moment, rubbing her eyes. The sunlight is gentle; she guesses it's early in the morning. The crimson bed sheets envelop her and a very naked Santana lies by her side, sprawled on her stomach, taking up as much space as she can.

She grins and kisses Santana's back just because. "Go to sleep," Santana groans, turning around. She places a leg over Brittany's as she hides her face in Brittany's neck.

Brittany kisses the top of Santana's head and drifts off to sleep.

XLIII

Brittany wakes up for the second time and she guesses it's late. Santana's sitting up in bed, legs stretched out, reading something on her iPad. Brittany yawns and Santana smiles. She's wearing a grey t-shirt, faded and comfortable, and nothing else – Brittany stretches and touches Santana's exposed thigh, silently asking for her attention.

"Hey," Santana says, running her free hand through Brittany's hair. It's absolutely delightful and Brittany closes her eyes in appreciation.

"Hey," Brittany answers, moving closer until her head is on Santana's lap. "Don't stop."

Santana scratches the back of Brittany's head, eyes glued to the screen. "You do like to say that in bed, don't you?"

Brittany can feel her ears warming up. She hides her face against Santana's body and mumbles, "You didn't complain last night."

Santana's laugh is so light and sincere Brittany can't help but smile against Santana's skin. "I'm not complaining, just stating a fact."

Brittany doesn't answer and they remain in silence for a while. Santana massages Brittany's scalp and reads. Brittany is happy just to feel Santana against her while lying in bed.

She is almost asleep when Santana clears her throat, "I'm almost finished. We can go eat breakfast in a second, okay?"

"What are you reading?"

"The news," Santana says, her fingers outlining Brittany's jaw. She pauses, her fingers stopping their motion as well. Brittany lets her think, examining Santana's features in the sunlight. "I read it every day," she finally offers, carefully.

Brittany sits up, covering herself with the sheets. She can't avoid the question that follows. "Because you like to?"

Santana examines Brittany with a smirk. Brittany tries to look innocent. "Sort of," she answers.

Brittany's smile is bright. Santana puts her iPad away and lifts her arm; Brittany takes the hint and scoots closer. "I'm such an awesome detective."

"You are," Santana agrees.

XLIV

The thing about hanging out with Musical Theater majors is that when Brittany finally arrives home, Rachel and her friends are there and they start an impromptu performance of "Accidentally In Love," led by Blaine. Brittany blushes and downs a glass of wine in the kitchen before returning to the living room.

"A toast," Kurt says, and they all raise their glasses. "To success, friendship, and unexpected love."

Brittany toasts with them – it's good to go back to a house full of people she can call friends. Their house is full more often than not; someone's always bringing them a gift or suggesting something to do; it feels like family.

Blaine sings "It's Not Unusual," but the downstairs neighbor banging a broomstick on the ceiling interrupts their fun and they go back to their movie.

XLV

She misses running into Santana in the subway – the changes in her schedule made those chance encounters fewer and fewer, until she feels she will never run into Santana again.

No one else is as interesting and the crowds pass by without catching her attention.

During the rare times she sees Santana, though, her cheeks redden as their eyes lock. It's like seeing her for the first time all over again.

Santana is always the one to come closer and she always has a hint of a smile; her fingers touch Brittany's pulse before she slides her hand into Brittany's. She never looks away from Brittany's eyes, and she makes Brittany forget how many stops she has left and where she's headed.

She makes conversation like they haven't gone on dates and met each other's friends, like they haven't slept together or eaten breakfast in bed last Saturday morning. It's like courting all over again – Brittany loves to play this game.

Brittany's day is always better when she shares at least bits of it with Santana. She goes to work and everything flows easier, smoother.

Sometimes, if she's lucky, Santana will text her to say something random, and she will bite her lip and answer right away; or, in a moment of bravery, she will text Santana something funny just to catch her attention.

Sometimes Santana tells her about a play, a concert, a restaurant, a new place she found; then Brittany gets to show interest and Santana asks her out. She'll show up at Brittany's doorstep, bringing Rachel some wine, and maybe – if Brittany's wearing heels or a shorter dress or sometimes nothing out of ordinary – Santana will stop to look at Brittany like she's the only person in the room and she'll kiss Brittany softly, slowly, before they leave.

XLVI

The unexpected happens when Brittany is having lunch with Mike at a restaurant close to work – a place with good sandwiches and a decoration that seems to have never left the 70s or its obsession with the Red Sox behind. There's a TV in the corner; it's easy to spot the restaurant's manager and one of the waiters there, watching a football game.

The manager changes channels and Santana's face appears on the screen, surrounded by microphones. Brittany swallows around a cough and puts down her fork. "Holy cow, Mike, is that—"

Mike turns and looks as well, but Brittany doesn't wait for his answer. "Where is that? Are those reporters?"

"—…there is no need for—" Santana's lips are moving, but the TV is too far and Brittany can't hear what she's saying, serious and determined, to the reporters. "—…coverage on this is damaging—"

"I need to listen to this," she tells Mike before standing up and taking a few steps towards the TV, entranced by the image.

Apparently, Santana's in front of some government building. "—…Civil society has a role—"

The manager pushes a button and an old episode of Seinfeld takes over the screen.

Brittany argues with him, but by the time he changes the channel back, the show has moved on and Santana has been replaced with images of some cooking show host Brittany doesn't care about.

She sighs and goes back to her table to a very confused Mike Chang.

XLVII

Mike takes a bite of his sandwich. "Why don't you just, you know, Google her to find out what she does?" he says, like it's obvious.

Brittany shrugs. "It's not about that." She pauses and runs a hand through her hair. "Google won't tell me she likes coffee with a hint of milk in the morning, and it won't show me what it's like to hang out with her best friend, or what the view is like from her apartment at night."

Mike sips his beer. "Go on."

"She said once," Brittany continues, even if it feels strange to explain their dynamics to someone else, "that she likes to think she's more than her job. It makes sense to me."

"She's one of a kind, isn't she?" Mike's look makes Brittany feel self-conscious, but not in a bad way. He takes another bite of his sandwich and says, mouth still half full, "Rachel keeps telling us about your little drunken night and how Santana picks the best wines, yet Tina and I still haven't met her."

The waiter takes Brittany's empty plate. She turns to her friend, trying not to smile. "Are you jealous, Mike Chang?"

"Just because I don't live with you anymore doesn't mean I lose my special treatment." He shrugs it off, and winks at her, finishing his beer. "Can she even dance?"

Brittany stops to think. "That's actually a very good question."

XLVIII

The students turn around, following Mike's instructions; they make for an eclectic bunch of every style imaginable – from gothic to preppy to hipster to laid-back. Mike's been teaching them for free as part of a city project that gives low-income youth opportunities to learn self-awareness through foreign languages, acting, and music.

It's beautiful to see how far they've come.

Santana misses her step and sighs in clear annoyance. "Again, how did you talk me into this?"

"Mike asked me if you could dance." Brittany shrugs, standing in position with Santana.

They start over and Santana messes up again. She huffs. "And how does that translate into salsa? Who dances salsa, anyway?"

Brittany places a finger on Santana's lips. "Stop whining just because you're not getting every single step right." She kisses Santana's lower lip, then her upper lip; she takes Santana's lip between her own and sucks on it gently. Santana's hands find blond hair and grab as she whimpers, pressing her body against Brittany's.

Brittany breaks them apart and looks at Santana expectantly.

"Sorry," Santana says. They both ignore the students giggling at them.

Brittany kisses the corner of Santana's mouth. "I'm being a perfect gentleman. But you have to let go and follow my lead."

Santana scratches the back of Brittany's neck. "I'm not good at letting go," she says.

Brittany bites her lip to restrain herself from kissing Santana again. "That's why you're getting it wrong." She looks into Santana's eyes. "You just have to trust me."

"I know," Santana answers, serious.

They start again.

XLIX

"You're doing great," Brittany says quietly.

"I am great," Santana answers, winking at Brittany. They finish their routine without a single mistake; Mike notices and gives them a thumbs up.

They get in position once more. "Let's try it one more time," Brittany says, taking Santana through the motions. She breathes in, gathers her courage, and continues, "I saw you on TV yesterday."

Santana raises her eyebrows, but she doesn't look surprised in the least. "Did you?"

Brittany nods, staring at Santana in search of any hint or trace of subtle emotion on her features. "I was having lunch with Mike and there you were on the screen. You were talking to reporters in front of City Hall."

They stop. Mike isn't looking at them; he's too focused on a pair of students. Santana steps aside to take a bottle of water from her purse; she drinks it, unrushed, before answering, "And what was I saying?"

There are butterflies in Brittany's stomach all over again – she's being tested and she knows it. Her shoulder touches the wall and she leans into Santana. "I couldn't tell, actually. When I got close enough to hear you, someone changed the channel and it was too late."

Santana looks too damn satisfied. "Too bad."

L

They get seated at the bar. It smells like French fries made love to bacon and cheese, and Brittany feels hungry immediately. She licks her lips, wondering if she should order something like that.

Santana interrupts her thoughts, "It wasn't that bad."

Brittany smiles from ear to ear. Santana had enjoyed their salsa lesson after all the whining and complaining? She just has to bask in it. "Excuse me? I didn't hear you."

Santana rolls her eyes. "I said I had a good time."

"Good girl," Brittany answers, leaning forward. Santana mirrors the movement and they meet halfway – Brittany likes this balance, this give and take. Santana takes control of their kiss and Brittany doesn't mind; she tilts her head to allow Santana better access to her mouth.

"No tongue action in front of the children, ladies." Mike arrives, placing three beers on the counter. He takes a seat and smiles when they break apart to look at him. He turns to Santana and says, "It's my friend you're kissing, you know."

"I have nothing but good intentions," Santana says, licking her lips and leaning back in her seat. She takes the beer Mike offers.

"This round is on me," he says.

Santana smiles and nods her head to thank him. "I like you already," she tells Mike before raising her glass and toasting to Brittany with him.

LI

The stairs creak and moan with Brittany's footsteps. A duffel bag over her shoulder, she rushes to the building's front entrance, eager to see Santana. It is dark and fresh outside; the car is already waiting for her when she gets to the sidewalk.

"Hi, Tony," she says, greeting the driver and throwing her bag in the backseat. It's only then that she looks at Santana – and stops, stunned. "Oh."

There are no words in Brittany's vocabulary to describe Santana. Her lipstick is red, moist and inviting. Her makeup is dark, making her eyes even more piercing and penetrating. Her neck and shoulders are exposed, and her hair is up. Her dress is black and long, and nothing short of royalty – the kind of dress Brittany sees in movies and magazines and dreams.

Santana just smirks at her, saying nothing, as the car weaves through the streets.

"I told you I had a work thing," she says, like it's as simple as that. Her perfume envelops Brittany – it's different this time, oriental and amber; maybe the occasion called for it.

Brittany touches the dress and feels the fabric. "You are definitely Batwoman."

Santana smiles; it's like watching a predator. "I wish."

Brittany thinks about putting her legs on Santana's lap, as usual, but she settles for not ruining the dress. She places her hands on her own thighs as a distraction. "You're an actress, then."

"No." Santana shakes her head. It's impossible not to look at the spot where her neck meets her shoulder. "It was a gala."

"A gala," Brittany repeats.

Santana rolls her eyes. "Yes, a gala." She places a hand over Brittany's bag between them, and Brittany takes the hint and intertwines their fingers. "Much better."

LII

There's something about seeing Santana in that dress. Santana enters her apartment, her heels echoing down the hall, and for a moment Brittany just watches her move: she raises a hand to her hair and lets it down, feeling it fall past her shoulders and gently settle down her back; she takes her earrings and her necklace off and drops them on top of the dinner table; she walks to her room, hips swaying; unbuttons her dress as she reaches for the bedroom door.

"Are you coming?" she says, looking over her shoulder at Brittany.

Brittany blinks and follows. She touches where tanned skin meets black fabric and pulls on the zipper. Santana pushes the dress down and it pools at her feet. Brittany's fingertips touch Santana's back.

"Are you coming?" Santana repeats, and Brittany follows once more, closing the door behind her.