"No, stop San, you're doing it wrong!"

"No I'm not, Britt!"

"Yes you are! Look!"

"Ugh. Fuck. This is fucking bullshit!" You throw the screwdriver down hard with the instructions.

"Santana Marisol! Language!"

"Argh!"

You growl and storm out of the room. I can hear you swearing in Spanish under your breath.

I let you grumble for a few minutes before I follow you. You're still huffing and pushing your hair back. It's sexy.

It would be sexier if you weren't pissing me off.

"Santana."

"Brittany."

You use my full name. I hate when you use my full name. Especially in that tone.

"Will you come back into the nursery and help me finish building the crib?"

"No."

"Come on, S…"

"No, Britt. I don't understand why we're building this ourselves."

"Because it's fun."

"It's not fun."

"Yes it is. You're getting all worked up. It's hot."

"You've gotta stop yelling at me about the swearing."

"You swear too much, San."

You roll your eyes and cross your arms. I see you soften a little bit but you hold your ground.

"Brittany, we can pay someone to build this crib for us. And then we'll know it's safe. I don't understand why we have to do this."

"This is part of nesting, Santana. I want us to build this together for the baby. This means a lot to me."

I see you take in a deep breath and you look at me.

You look at me with those eyes.

I know you're done. I know you're not angry anymore.

You let me pull you back into the nursery. The separate pieces of the crib we bought are all spread out on the floor. I reach down to pick up the side piece you set aside when you got all pouty and huffy.

Pouty and huffy is nothing new on you, babe.

Pouty and huffy is hot.

Even when it's annoying.

"Britt, wait, I got it."

"I'm fine."

"No, I don't want you lifting it, it's heavy."

"I'm not helpless, Santana." I'm trying to be patient, but I hate it when you don't listen to me and my limits.

"I didn't say you were, just let me help with that."

"No. I can do it." It's sharp. Biting.

You run your hands through your hair again and let out another big breath. I can see the gears turning in your head.

"You know what, I'm gonna pause this right now. This is ridiculous, Brittany."

"What is?"

"We shouldn't be fighting over this. It's just a stupid fucking crib."

Your words sting right back, "Stupid fucking crib?"

You must see the way my posture changes, because you soften. "That's not what I meant, baby."

"Oh, no? Then what did you mean, Santana?"

"I just meant… this… this isn't worth a blowout."

"Our baby isn't worth a fight?"

"Ugh, that's not what I meant! Stop putting words in my mouth!" Your frustration is at an all time high again and I feel sorry about what I said, but not sorry enough to stop.

Your words are hurting, too.

And I know I'm more sensitive than usual.

But I can't help it.

Sometimes being pregnant sucks.

"Well then what did you mean!? You're clearly not happy! You'd clearly rather pay some strangers to put this together instead of stopping to focus for twenty fucking minutes to help me put this together. It's not that goddamn hard, Santana."

Your face blanches.

"Yeah, you're right."

"And you know what else, I don't appreciate your battitude about this whole thing. Stop being such a whiny brat."

You start giggling. You don't even try to hide it even though you know it drives me crazy when we're having a serious conversation.

You're just standing there giggling.

And all the tension starts to leave the room.

"What on earth are you laughing at?!" I can't help the small smile that starts to creep on my face. Even though I want to finish this conversation.

"Did you seriously just say battitude?"

"I did, yes."

"What does that even mean, Britt-Britt?"

"Bad attitude. Battitude."

"Oh my god, where did you even get that you silly person?" You take a step towards me, your eyes shining with mirth.

"Um, I think I heard it on the subway. It's perfect for this situation. You have such a battitude, Lopez."

"Hmm. I suppose."

Your hands circle my waist. Caress my growing belly. You're all soft, soft, soft.

I feel the baby flip inside me, and your eyes look up at mine with that special smile they have.

That special smile that I know belongs to our child.

"Why don't we take this to our bedroom and I"ll show you just how bad I can get?"

"Is that a promise?"

"Mmm… you can have whatever you want, Britt-Britt."

"That doesn't sound very bad, S."

"Oh… I think you know just how bad it is."

You laugh as I drag you out of the nursery and down the hall to the bedroom, stripping my shirt halfway there.

And it's hot and fiery and intense.

And it's so alive.

And it feels like every time we have sex now, every time gets better and better.

I feel more connected to you than I've ever felt before.

I feel more in love with you than I've ever felt before.

I feel more you.

Everywhere.

Like we're trying to say farewell to our old selves. Our pre-baby lives.

While embracing the new journey that motherhood will bring us.

And you get me to come harder and harder each time you touch me.

And your smug smile when you do sets my skin on fire.

It makes me want you more and more.

All the time.

It's electric.

You. You all pouty and huffy, all frustration and patience...you, Santana, are electric.