3. THE FIRST NIGHT

"Santana." You repeat, testing how her name vibrates in your throat as you say it out loud. You like it, it's exotic, it's sexy, it's powerful. It tastes like expensive whiskey in your mouth. "Can I call you Santana?" You warily ask.

"Well, yeah." She answers with a scoff, crossing her arms over her chest protectively. "I'd much rather not be called Mrs. Keating." She adds with that grimace again, that makes her look like she unexpectedly sucked on a bucket of lemons.

"Okay." You answer, and the silence takes over you two again.

You take a moment to study her from the corner of your eye while you drive. There is something setting you off about this woman. She looks so wounded, so damaged, scared, submitted to one of the most horrible fates that can be thought for any woman, yet you can feel the fierce that her pores exude. You don't see it, but you feel it. She is strong, stubborn, probably fast-mouthed. She is a fighter. There is a determination in her deep, dark eyes that you have only seen a couple of times before in your life. But here she is. Here she is, recurring to call the emergencies because she is horribly hurt, rather than walking herself out of that damned marriage with the strength you are feeling irradiating from her soul right now.

"Aren't you going to ask my name?" You ask, trying to make some kind of conversation. You have never been one for small talk, you actually usually prefer the silence, but Santana is making you nervous. You are getting restless on your seat, trying your best not to start driving recklessly, and you need some interaction to distract yourself.

"Nope." She replies, dismissing you completely, leaving you utterly dumbfounded. You are taking her to your home, to your safe place, to your sanctuary, and she isn't even going to ask you to introduce yourself before taking over your bed for the night? How rude. After a few seconds of silence though, she speaks again. "Why should I? I'm probably never going to see you again, so it's not like it really matters." She says acidly and you swallow hard. This is going to be harder than you thought. For now, you just let it be.

Soon enough, you are parking your car in front of your apartment building, and you see how Santana frowns, clearly confused, sucking her own lips into her mouth in deep thought.

"I told you you'd be safe tonight." You mutter as you turn off the engine and open your door, getting out of the car. As Santana isn't following you, you walk around your car and open her door for her, urging her to get out.

"What is this place?" She asks, raising her swollen eyebrow and making her instantly wince in pain.

"My home." You breathe out, and you can clearly see how something softens in Santana's eyes. They stop looking like dark, steamy coffee, and start looking like melted chocolate. Yummy. It looks a whole lot like gratitude.

Slowly she gets out of your car wincing again, and you are almost sure she is sporting a broken rib, but aside from that and the shallow wounds on her face, and the bruises covering most of her skin, she seems to be fine. You know usually the wounds from an abusive relationship aren't visible, and those are the hardest to overcome. External damage heals easily. Bruises disappear, broken bones fix themselves, but the psychological effects sometimes stay forever. No matter how hard you try to be better, there will always be this nagging in the back of your mind reminding you that you are not worth anything. You know it well. You've never been in an abusive relationship, thank God, but you were bullied all through your school years, since elementary school till the late years of high school. You were called every single variation of stupid you could find in a synonymous dictionary and then some. Sometimes the bullying got physical. And look at you now. You got your degree early and you have done a lot of good for almost 7 years now. But still, when you are alone in the middle of the night, you can still hear the voice. Oh, Britt, look at you. You poor thing. Unable to take care of yourself. So dumb. Your brain is full of glitter and rainbows...

You close your car's door and lock it before you start walking towards the main entrance of your building, with Santana in tow. You are both quiet again, and for some reason, you have the feeling this will be your dynamic from now on, at least for the night. She is clearly difficult, and you can understand why. You need to muster all the patience you can to get through the night. She needs this, even if she isn't showing it, you need to remember that. Tomorrow she'll be out of your hair. You took this decision on your own, now you need to make it through.

Your apartment isn't big, but it's enough for you. And it's yours. It's your property, and you are fucking proud of it. As you open your door, you step aside to let Santana get inside first. You can see her hesitation as her hungry eyes study her surroundings. You are sure she is pondering if she really is safe here, or if you are some kind of psycho who's going to trade her organs for methamphetamine in the black market. When she is satisfied with what she sees, she walks through the door into your spacious living room. You get in behind her and close the door, locking it behind you. You live in a quite safe neighborhood, but America has taught you to better be safe than sorry.

Silently you guide her through a narrow corridor towards your room. You feel her stop midway though, and you kind of stop too.

"Hey, Brittany." She says and you turn around as fast as a lightning bolt, with a deep frown, very confused. She didn't want to know your name, but now she does know it? Is she psychic or what? Noticing your confusion she simply shrugs and points her finger towards the wall. That's when you see it. It's your diploma, framed and proudly standing on your wall, obviously showing your full name. You offer Santana a tight-lipped smile. Smart-ass... "Thank you." She finally says in a whisper and you let out a sigh, nodding, taking in her gratitude, but not replying verbally. Instead you turn around an keep walking to your room, and once you are in it, you keep marching towards your en-suite bathroom.

Silently you guide her to sit on your toilet, and you examine her face closely. As you first thought, nothing looks too severe. Some bandages and ice will do. Slowly you start to pull out some stuff from your medicine cabinet. A couple bandages, some peroxide to clean the wounds, and a bottle of aspirin to help her with her pain.

You also take a clean cloth and open the water tab, letting it get warm before soaking the small face towel in it. As you move to her again, in order to clean her face first, and you start getting closer to her face, she suddenly flinches away and scurries backwards against the wall, clearly trying to escape from you.

"NO!" she yells and it startles you, making you back away. Once there is some distance between you two again, she seems to relax. Her breathing is shallow again. You really don't know what you did to scare her so much, but in this very moment all the strength you had felt back in your car is gone, leaving behind this very vulnerable woman. "Let me do it myself." She adds, and you really don't want to scare her more, so you carefully offer her the damped cloth and watch her start cleaning herself in front of your mirror.

You clear your throat and sigh. If she needs space, you will give her space.

"You can shower if you want." You start, fixating your eyes in your own shoe laces. "There are towels in the cabinet. And I will let you some clothes to sleep in. You take the bed. It's big and fluffy and comfortable. I'll sleep on the couch, don't worry." You say, almost stumbling over your own words. "I'll go now. If you need me, just yell." You try to joke, letting out a dry laugh.

You turn around, but before you can leave, she speaks again.

"Why are you treating me like a charity case?". She asks, and her voice sounds like thick cigar smoke and Hennessy. A chill runs down your spine and you kick yourself mentally because it wasn't the bad type of chill. Actually her velvety voice kind of turned you on. You really are stupid sometimes.

"You need help, Santana. That's all I'm doing here." You answer, trying to ignore your revolted feelings.

"Oh, do I?" She spits out, looking at you through the mirror. Damn it, she is fucking sexy. There is no way you can deny the truth. But you need to. She's the ugliest person ever, you try to convince yourself.

"You do." You answer with a nod.

"For what I know, help means sending me to the ER to get checked and later to a shelter to spend the night like some fucking hobo. I should know. Been there, done that." She says shrugging nonchalantly, but you can hear the pain and the fear in her voice.

"You haven't come across the right people often, then." You deadpan and turn around again, this time leaving for good, before your feelings and your raging hormones take the best from you. This is a woman who needs help, a damsel in distress if you please, not some slut you picked up at a random bar to hook up with. Get yourself together.

Before you leave the room, you lay over the bed some black shots with yellow ducks all over them, and your old motocross hoodie with your number - 21 - and Pierce, printed all over the back. Santana is smaller than you, so your clothes will probably be a size or two too big on her, but at least she will be comfortable. You also put there a pair of fresh underwear. Once you are satisfied, you leave, moving to your kitchen.

It's almost 5 in the morning, but Santana might be hungry, it's been a long night for you both, so you start cooking. Something simple and comforting. You ponder a few options, before going with your own comfort food, grilled cheese and tomato soup, hoping Santana would find it just as good as you did.

You had lost yourself in your mind as you cooked, but you think at some point you stopped hearing the water. It had been a while though. Once you are done with the food, you set a bowl and a sandwich on a tray to take back to your room for Santana.

"Santana, I..." You say as you open your room's door carefully, only to find her fast asleep sprawled over your bed. She looks adorable with your shorts and your hoodie, her wet hair everywhere. Now that her face is clean she looks even more beautiful, and she looks in peace. You forgot to ice her swell, though. You need to remember to do that tomorrow.

Quietly you leave the tray on your nightstand in case she wakes up from her slumber at some point, and just let her rest. You walk back to your living room, sighing and stretching your limbs as you walk. You eat your dinner, or breakfast, or whatever in complete silence, and before you know it you have fallen into a dreamless deep sleep.

When you finally wake up, you panic for a moment because you feel like you are being squished and you instantly think that someone finally broke into your apartment and is trying to choke you to death. That is before your brain catches up with your body waking up and notices that you are actually not being choked, there is just another adult human body pressing to your back and, consequently, pressing you against the back of the couch. Dark hair is tickling your cheek and a tanned arm has raked it's way around your midriff, barely brushing against your left breast.

For a moment you wonder how you got into this situation, since all you remember is falling asleep after you ate, but you can't deny it's the best wake up you have had for a while.