After a beat or two, which was the time it took for Brittany to process that Santana—a very, very drenched Santana—was standing in front of her, vulnerable and needy, Brittany finally stepped back into the warmth of her house.

"Santana," she stammered.

She was surprised, to say the least, even if the sight wasn't all so unfamiliar. It wasn't the first time her ex-girlfriend had begged for entrance, though circumstances were now quite different.

As she recalled the silent plea in the chef's voice, not to mention how she was now fidgeting in place, Brittany blinked herself out of her stupor and rushed to say, "Oh! Come in, come in."

She motioned inside, pulling the door wider as Santana finally stepped in, teeth now close to chattering. She was trembling, but Brittany had yet to know it was from fatigue rather than cold.

"You must be freezing," Brittany said, closing the door behind them. She turned to face Santana, but the woman was shaking her head.

"I'm okay," she murmured.

They looked at each other, unmoving, before Santana suddenly wrapped her arms around Brittany's neck, holding her tight as she felt her body collapse. It just felt so...

Santana closed her eyes, almost as if she could finally fall asleep without worrying about the nightmares that had plagued her all week, Susan Spite be damned. She needed this small escape; her body and mind were so numb it felt like she hadn't slept in a month. Brittany knew her in and out, which meant she could allow herself to be a mess in front of her.

However, the unexpected embrace had Brittany feeling awkward and stiff, her thumb tentatively caressing Santana's back—well, wet coat. She'd almost spilled her coffee all over her hand, but thankfully the hot liquid in her mug had only sloshed a bit.

"S..." Brittany smiled as Santana's hair tickled her nose. "Um...you're, like, super wet," she finished with a chuckle.

Santana blinked before she registered the words, hurriedly breaking the hug.

"Shit, I'm sorry." She blushed as she took a step back. "I didn't—I wasn't thinking."

"Hey, it's okay." Brittany smiled warmly. "Let's get you out of these clothes, yeah?"

Santana nodded, her thoughts too incoherent to answer in a suggestive manner. She took her coat off and hung it to dry as Brittany set her coffee mug on the kitchen table. The warmth of the place made Santana smile; it hadn't changed a lot. Sure, she'd been here recently, but she hadn't exactly taken the time to get reacquainted with the decor. Rather, she had deemed it more important to get reacquainted with Brittany's kisses and touch.

Not that she regretted it in any way...

As she slipped her shoes off and walked to the living room, Brittany motioned to the stairs that led to her bedroom, the two guest rooms and the bathroom. She'd inherited the house from her parents after they'd moved to Orlando when she was 20, which was why it was entirely too spacious for one person. Brittany's excuse was that she loved the neighborhood too much to move. Santana smiled secretly at her stubborn streak. The truth, she knew, was that Brittany was quite the homebody; it was unlikely she'd ever move out without being forced to.

It was odd to remember Santana had once lived here too. Quite a long time, in fact, though both women knew it had been a premature step in their relationship. Santana had been struggling to pay the rent for her small studio apartment, and it was only after seven months of dating that Brittany had suggested she move in with her. Still, Santana had many fond memories of the place.

"You still haven't changed that chair," she noted with an impish smile, pointing to one of the two wooden chairs around the kitchen table.

Brittany turned around to face her, her eyebrows coming together. After a few seconds, she understood what she meant and her eyes flickered to the chair. It was old, probably older than her parents, and it definitely looked the part. One of the wooden slats on the back was missing, and Santana vividly remembered how that had happened.

Brittany, seeing the coy expression on Santana's face, smirked. "Yeah, I guess I haven't...it's a good chair."

Santana nodded as the memory washed over her. She remembered sitting on it, her legs spread as Brittany devoured her, soft but strong hands firmly holding her thighs.

Brittany remembered the scene a bit differently, with Santana's fingers tangled in her hair and her eyes shut tight. Her head had been thrown backwards as she'd gasped for breath, moaning her name over and over again. She had this image: one of Santana completely overcome with pleasure, wisps of black hair sticking to her forehead, her breasts rising with each labored breath she took. Needless to say, it was etched in Brittany's mind.

Eventually, the chair had toppled backwards, making Santana screech and Brittany blink confusedly as she was pulled forward. She'd quickly pushed Santana to the side before they'd started laughing maniacally, eyes glistening with tears. Brittany couldn't help but bite back a smile at the memory.

"You never finished me that day." Santana grinned, knowing her ex-girlfriend was recalling the same moment she was.

Brittany laughed. "Hey, it's not my fault the pizza guy chose that moment to knock on the door; I didn't want to give him a free show."

"Uh-huh..."

"And later..." Brittany paused, smiling sadly. "Well, you know. Same old."

Santana winced. "Yeah..."

She knew that by "same old," Brittany had been referring to a disagreement. Maybe it had been over which show to watch or whose turn it was to wash the dishes, take the garbage out, clean the bathroom. Or perhaps Santana's eyes had lingered on another woman a bit too long; she was only human after all, though fiercely faithful, but it just so happened that Brittany was the very extremely jealous type. Whatever it was, the chef couldn't remember at all, but it must have been bad for them to forgo sex.

"I'm sorry." Santana smiled softly.

"For what?"

"It was probably my fault."

Brittany looked at her quizzically and then smiled back. "No, actually, it was mine. I pissed you off because I borrowed your tooth–"

"–brush," Santana recalled, scrunching her nose. "Oh, I hated when you did that."

"See," Brittany laughed.

"Well, come on, yours was always right next to it, I mean—"

"Santana..." Brittany sighed.

"Right...sorry."