Another update for y'all! There are a few different scenes in this one, so the settings may change rather quickly. I love reading your thoughts and comments, so if you're able to leave a review, I'd really appreciate it! Enjoy! :)
In the many years she's known Quinn, Santana's never been this nervous to face the girl. She almost canceled their weekly lunch, already having an excuse lined up. Maybe Shelby wouldn't let her take a lunch break. Maybe her inbox was flooded with too many emails to answer unless she worked the entire day.
But she didn't. And as she enters the restaurant, immediately meeting Quinn's stern glare, she really wishes she had. Santana greets the host before walking to the table, her hands in her pockets. She sits down and clears her throat, picking up her menu to shield herself from Quinn's gaze.
Neither says a word until their drinks arrive, Santana awkwardly thanking the waiter before finally facing Quinn. Her hands are folded neatly on the table, and she's regarding Santana carefully.
"This is awkward," the blonde speaks first.
Santana nods and sucks her lips into her mouth. "Yeah…"
"Care to explain why?" Quinn asks. Santana doesn't need further elaboration to know what the blonde's referring to.
"I really don't have an explanation."
"So, what, you just tripped and fell into bed?" Her tone is lilted, and Santana can see the smirk on her face without looking at her.
"Come on," Santana relents, "we were all drinking." Santana can't make herself look at Quinn for longer than a few seconds, feeling shame overtake her when she does. She shouldn't feel guilty—she wouldn't take back the night with Brittany for anything. But knowing Quinn found out that way makes Santana feel something she's never felt before.
Quinn nudges Santana's foot under the table, urging the girl to look up from her lap. When brown eyes meet green, Quinn smiles fondly, trying to reassure Santana. "I've seen the way you look at each other," she says softly, pausing. "It's disgusting."
Santana can't fight the smile overtaking her features at Quinn's statement, feeling heat flood her cheeks. The waiter arrives a moment later and delivers their food, Santana busying herself with unwrapping her utensils wordlessly.
"Besides," Quinn continues, "I had a feeling you were hiding a relationship from me. And by 'had a feeling,'" she uses air quotes, "I mean wished."
Santana clears her throat and slightly shakes her head. "We're not in a relationship." She stabs her pasta and shoves a forkful into her mouth, preventing her from elaborating further, as Quinn's eyes widen.
"Really?" she asks.
Santana shakes her head.
"Well, why not?"
Santana grips her glass a little tighter, her fingers flexing around the cup. Quinn's just staring at her simply, holding her fork still as she waits for Santana's answer. "What?" she asks, her voice cracking as she speaks.
"Why not?" Quinn repeats.
"Um…" Santana trails off, not knowing exactly how to answer. "I just…I don't know if that's what we both want."
"Have you asked?"
"No," Santana mutters, nearly inaudible. "Look, the other night was the first of anything like that…we've been strictly platonic."
Quinn narrows her eyes and looks at Santana with compassion. "Santana…" she pauses, "I don't think you and Brittany have ever been platonic."
Santana gulps at her words, placing her hands awkwardly under her thighs to prevent her from fidgeting.
"Do you want something more?" Quinn asks, ducking her head down to meet Santana's eyes.
Santana shrugs, looking into the green eyes across from her. She doesn't have to say anything to know that Quinn understands. She doesn't have to vocalize her answer…it's obvious.
"Then why don't you try?" Quinn asks.
"What if she doesn't feel the same?" Santana asks softly.
Quinn chuckles. "In what world does she not?" Quinn's sitting across from Santana, chatting like everything is so simple. As if she knows the future between Santana and Brittany. Santana'd be lying if she said it didn't bring a little relief, seeing someone so positive that her desires are within reach. But she can't just push down her reservations, either.
"What if I'm not good enough for her?" Santana reveals. "I mean, she's the brightest, most captivating person I know. What do I have to offer her?"
"Who says you have to offer her anything, Santana?"
"She deserves everything this world can give her…and more. And I'm just a personal assistant who has an obsession with puzzles, two friends, and no clear direction in my life. Does that sound like someone with anything real to give in a relationship?"
Quinn listens to Santana's rant, watching the brunette carefully as she passionately throws out these ultimatums and "what ifs." After she finishes, Quinn folds her hands neatly on the table and leans forward, sighing before speaking. "Can I be honest?" Quinn asks, earning a nod in response. "It sounds like you're trying to convince yourself more than anyone else."
Santana gawks at her friend's statement, rolling her eyes and leaning back. There's no way in hell she'd be convincing herself that it won't work with Brittany—why would she do that when she wants nothing more than to be with the girl? "Bullshit." Santana waves dismissively.
"Santana," Quinn starts, "we can all see how amazing you are—Rachel, myself, Mercedes, Kurt—especially Brittany. Why do you have so much trouble seeing it yourself?"
Santana doesn't know how to respond to Quinn's question. She looks down at her near-empty plate, Quinn's point sinking in deeper with every passing second.
"Look. I know you have a past. And I know it still haunts you," Quinn says softly, with understanding. "But we're past that. You're not that person anymore. You deserve good things, Santana. You're allowed to be happy. Sometimes, I feel like you hold back because, deep down, you don't believe that."
Santana thinks over Quinn's words, thinking back to her conversation with Brittany a while ago. Everyone around her has confirmed exactly what she has so much trouble believing. It's not even an act of proving herself to anyone else anymore—it's herself.
"You'll get there eventually," Quinn continues, "but don't let your insecurity keep you from what could be one of the best things in your life."
/
Twiddling a pencil between her two fingers, Santana looks down at the few lines she has written down on the notepad. Inspiration comes in waves, but she really thought she'd have more lyrics written by now. She barely has the first verse and the chorus completed, and to have such a "gift" in writing, she's really drawing a blank.
She puts her hands over her eyes and wracks her brain for words that rhyme with "survive" while still keeping the overall flow of the song. She's been struggling to make any progress the past few days, and lunch with Quinn gave her enough to get the chorus fully written, but she has no clue where to go from here.
"What are you working on?"
Her attention's brought to the front of her desk, a curious Mercedes standing there, looking over Santana's computer at the notepad, trying to read the words scribbled. Santana smacks her hands over the top and slides the pad closer to her, moving it off the desk and into her lap.
"Nothing," Santana responds, just a little too frantic to not sound suspicious.
At Santana's quick response, Mercedes cocks an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. She leans against the desk, crossing her arms with a smirk on her face. "You're really that secretive about a song?"
Santana fumbles with her words, trying to scrunch her brows to pass as clueless. "I-I don't know what you're talking about."
"Girl, I know lyrics when I see them," Mercedes jokes, waving her hands for the notepad Santana holds tightly below the desk. It takes a moment, but Santana concedes with a sigh, handing over the pad. Mercedes scans over the lyrics, her lips moving as she silently recites them. "This is really good, Santana," she says, handing the notepad back to the brunette.
"Really?" Santana asks, unsure.
"Better than half the songs I've been offered," she laughs.
Santana glances at the half-finished song written on the notepad. She lets out a breath she's been holding, but she still feels apprehensive. "I'm just stuck," she admits. "It's like my brain can't create anything that fits. Nothing feels right."
"Well, stop me if you don't want my opinion," Mercedes offers, waiting a moment.
Santana purses her lips and looks at the girl, not saying anything.
"I think you're overthinking it. It doesn't have to be perfect, Santana."
Santana shrugs, not entirely convinced. "Isn't that it, though? If it's not perfect, is it even worth sharing?"
"Look, I get it," Mercedes agrees. "You want it to be flawless—it's what every artist strives for. But you can't hold yourself to this impossible standard. You're a writer, right?"
Santana nods.
Mercedes puts a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Then you should know more than anybody that they're called rough drafts for a reason. It's not about making everything perfect on the first try—it's about getting the thought and idea out there, written, so you can build on it."
Santana pulls her lips to the side, a slight smile breaking through. Mercedes is right. It doesn't have to be flawless the first time around. She doesn't have to worry about having the perfect expressions or rhymes—she can start with a first draft and build from there. "I guess I never thought of it like that," she reveals.
"Sometimes, you just need someone to remind you." Mercedes shrugs.
"Thanks," Santana says wholeheartedly.
Mercedes grins, patting her shoulder. "Anytime. Now get back to work—that masterpiece isn't gonna write itself. In the meantime," she stands, "I have a finicky producer to please."
Santana smiles and watches as her friend walks away, a sense of clarity finally settling in. She takes a deep breath and picks up her pencil with newfound confidence, hovering it over the page for a moment before jotting down the lyrics that come to mind. Within the hour, she's got the song written, smiling at an actual starting point.
/
"Rachel, you couldn't have paid the guys an extra fifty bucks to carry it in?"
"Santana, you know it'd be more than that."
"She has a point."
"Are you guys even lifting?" The new voice startles Santana for a moment. She forgot Kurt was on the other side of the couch, his head hidden by the armrest.
"Yes. You may just be lacking in the strength department," Rachel answers him, and Santana's knees nearly buckle from laughter.
"I'm sorry," Kurt bites, "but are you carrying half the couch—on your own—up the stairs?"
"Come on, guys. We're almost there," Brittany says from the top of the staircase, waving her hand to direct the three as they slowly move the new couch up the last flight of stairs. "Move a little to your left," she directs. "Left. Left. Left."
"We get it!" Kurt yells, and Brittany goes quiet. She sucks her lips in her mouth and just uses her hands to direct the rest of the way.
Fifteen minutes later, Kurt, Rachel, and Santana are all sitting on the new couch, exhausted from the move. Brittany walks in from the kitchen with three bottles of water, handing one to each of them before sitting on a nearby chair. "Is the couch comfortable, at least?"
"No," Kurt and Santana say in unison.
"Yes," Rachel says simultaneously.
"It's hard," Kurt says, sitting up and smacking the back roughly before rubbing his lower back.
Santana smirks and opens her mouth to speak, but Rachel cuts her off. "Don't!" she exclaims, pointing a stern finger in Santana's direction. Kurt and Brittany look at the two, confused, but shrug it off when no explanation is given. "Quinn says she'll be here in a few minutes with the food," Rachel says, moving on.
"Ah, yes, speaking of the Ice Queen," Santana starts, "why couldn't she help us move this couch again?"
"She said something about work," Rachel says, shrugging. "I didn't ask for details."
"For once," Santana mutters, standing and walking into the kitchen to rinse her hands off. The couch is covered in dust from whatever factory it came from, and it's caked Santana's hands in a thick layer of grey. Santana cringes at the layer of grime but reconsiders when she fully looks at the obnoxious pattern etched into the faux leather material—maybe it's best if the dust stays.
Brittany walks in a moment later, smirking as she sees Santana scrubbing her hands aggressively under the hot water. Santana hears the girl enter, looking over her shoulder to see a smirk on the blonde's face. Knowing a joke is coming, she remains silent as she waits for Brittany to say it.
"I never thought watching someone move a couch so poorly would be so attractive."
Santana's breath hitches in her throat. That wasn't what she was expecting Brittany to say. She clears her throat, allowing herself to remain in shock for just a second before responding. "I thought you said you and Kurt were just friends…and gay," she jabs back.
Brittany's face morphs into one of disgust. "You know what," she says, waving her hand back and forth with a grimace, "you made it not funny."
"Ah." Santana smiles, wiping her hands on a nearby dish towel. "Mission accomplished."
"You talking about the couch?" Brittany asks, pointing over her shoulder toward the living room. "Because I think you just barely got by with that one."
Santana shakes her head and laughs at the comment. "Well, you could've jumped in at any moment to help."
"Can't," Brittany responds, stepping closer to the brunette. "I have a class to teach at four, and I can't do that if I break an ankle." She shrugs comically, crossing her arms over her chest.
"Excuses," Santana remarks. She'd be lying if she said she didn't enjoy the banter. She watches as Brittany takes the final step between the two, barely a foot of space between their bodies. Santana's pressed against the counter, unable to escape from the blonde, but she's not upset about it. "I guess that means you're not free tonight?" she asks, lust evident in her tone.
"Depends on what you have in mind."
"It's definitely better than a dance class."
"Even if teaching's one of my favorite things?" Brittany challenges.
"I'll make it worth your while. Maybe introduce some new choreography." Santana smirks as she sees the blonde's cheeks quickly turn red. She loves how easy it is to make the girl blush. All it takes is a little flirtatious teasing, and it's like the blonde's wrapped around her finger—Santana loves the vulnerability in Brittany's eyes when she's caught off guard.
"As much as I'd rather be doing that," Brittany whispers, the playful flirting from a moment ago replaced with reluctant sincerity. "I really do have to teach this class."
Santana sighs, nodding. She wasn't actually expecting Brittany to cancel her class to spend time with her—as nice as the thought may be. It's Brittany's livelihood, the thing she loves. She wouldn't ever stand between Brittany and the thing that feeds her soul.
"But maybe," Brittany continues, reaching out to slowly slide her hand up Santana's arm, watching her hand as it trails up tan skin. "If you're free…you could come watch."
Santana tilts her head to the side, surveying Brittany's face as she speaks. She can see authenticity in the blonde's features—she's not asking out of sympathy or obligation.
"You really want me to watch your class?" she asks, her voice lifted in subtle excitement.
Brittany nods, looking into Santana's eyes. She reaches up to brush a strand of hair that fell from Santana's loose ponytail out of her face.
"Okay," Santana softly agrees. "But only if I get a front-row seat."
"Oh, of course," Brittany sternly agrees. "I've already got it reserved."
Santana smiles, feeling a flutter of warmth spread through her chest. It's not often she opens up to people like this—lets them see this sincere, playful side. She finds her gaze flickering and forth between Brittany's eyes and lips. She can't decide which one is more beautiful.
"Um." There's a knock on the threshold, and Santana and Brittany snap out of their trance, turning their attention to the doorway. Kurt's standing there with his fist awkwardly held midair, hovering over the wood. He clears his throat. "Quinn's here with the pizza."
Brittany nods and quietly thanks him. He wastes no time in scurrying away, leaving the two alone again. She smiles softly and taps the end of Santana's nose, this time Santana being the one to scrunch it in return. She backs away from Santana and turns to leave the kitchen, letting her hand remain in contact with Santana's skin as long as it can as she steps away.
/
Santana arrives at the address Brittany sent her and smiles at the small brick building. It should look out of place, surrounded by all the skyscrapers that line the streets of New York, but it oddly fits in perfectly. Brittany's already inside, needing to arrive earlier for class, and the thought makes Santana's stomach fill with butterflies. She takes a deep breath and walks up the entrance ramp to the studio. As she nears, she can hear the muffled sound of the music pumping inside.
The faint smell of wooden floors and slightly sweaty air fills her nose as she opens the door, and her attention is drawn immediately to the large open room adjacent to the entry hallway. She can see high-school-aged kids inside, all stretching and jumping to the music. The room's lined with floor-to-ceiling mirrors on three walls, and she can see Brittany's reflection, moving along with her students. She's calling out different stretches, their bodies morphing into the position as she speaks. She's wearing a fitted tank top and leggings, and Santana admires how effortlessly the blonde moves about the front of the room. She's truly in her element.
Santana finally takes the remaining steps to the room, leaning on the threshold when she gets within reach. Brittany's eyes meet hers almost immediately, and a bright smile takes over her features. Brittany tells her students to keep stretching and leaves her position, rushing over to greet Santana.
Brittany tackles her in an excited hug when she gets within reach, and Santana can't help but laugh at the blonde's giddiness. "You came!" Brittany squeals, holding her at arm's length.
"Of course, Britt," Santana chuckles. She finds Brittany's behavior amusing—she's acting like they didn't just see each other nearly three hours ago.
Brittany places a hand on the lower part of Santana's back and guides her to the side of the room, close to the dance floor but far enough away that she's not in danger of getting hit. "Your front-row seat, as promised." She gestures to the chair and ushers Santana to take a seat, placing a quick kiss on her cheek before sauntering back to the front of the room. She claps her hands loudly to get everyone's attention. "Places!" she commands.
All the students move to their respective positions, crowded together yet far enough apart so they have their own space to move. Brittany picks up a small black remote and presses a button, Dua Lipa's "Electricity" filling the room seconds later.
Santana watches as Brittany steps to the beat, preparing for the moves ahead.
As the beat quickens, so does the rhythm in which they dance. Brittany's body glides so effortlessly with the music, slipping into the rhythm as if the music is taking control of her. She moves with precision and ease, and Santana can't help but stare as various muscles ripple through Brittany's skin with each sharp movement as if it's second nature. Brittany sends Santana a wink over her shoulder mid-movement, and Santana's relieved she's already sitting—her knees would've buckled with how unfairly attractive it is. Brittany spins through the final steps with ease, landing on her feet simultaneously with the final beat. She laughs, clapping with pride, as she allows everyone to remove themselves from their landing pose.
Santana can feel her jaw ache from how big her smile is, but she doesn't make any move to diminish it. She's completely mesmerized with Brittany—everything about her. The playful attitude, her soul, passion, patience—all of it make up this one person. Her favorite person. And as she watches Brittany address and critique some of her students' positions, she can't help but let herself be entirely captivated by the blonde: her warm tone, the way she dances, the authority yet gentleness in her voice as she demonstrates the different techniques.
She's always been attracted to Brittany—ever since their first meeting. But this feels like something more.
There's no one like her. There will never be someone like her. Brittany's truly everything Santana ever dreamed of, and she still can't wrap her mind around the fact that the blonde is real. That she's not some figment of Santana's imagination—one specifically curated for her. It gives Santana a glimmer of hope to think that maybe, just maybe, she could see the girl as a part of her future.
The thought should scare the living hell out of her—but it doesn't. And she can't place why. But the idea of happily-ever-after with Brittany seems a hell of a lot better than spending it by herself—something she never thought she'd experience.
And who would've thought the realization would come during a dance class? It seems random…yet perfect. Here, Brittany's in her element; her true self shines bright. But Santana can see everything about the girl…she understands her. Maybe things aren't really as complicated as everyone makes them out to be when it comes to love. Maybe it's just about baring your soul, being yourself, that truly leads you to the right person.
Santana can't help but think she's found that with Brittany.
Santana's brought out of her thoughts when Brittany dismisses her students and quickly makes her way over. Her cheeks are flushed from exertion and joy, and when her eyes find Santana's again, Santana's breath hitches.
"So?" Brittany asks, leaning over Santana to grab her water bottle. She plops down in front of Santana, crossing her legs and swaying back and forth, stretching.
"If you're trying to make me obsessed with you, it's working," Santana says bluntly. She reaches out and pats down a flyaway that escapes from Brittany's ponytail, admiring the state of the girl in front of her.
Brittany laughs, ducking her head down, timid. If her cheeks weren't already red from the dancing, Santana's sure they would be now.
"I get it now," she continues. "Why you love this."
Brittany takes Santana's hand into hers and holds it still on her cheek, kissing the inside of her wrist quickly. "Why is that?"
"'Cause it's you." Santana shrugs, pausing. She strokes her thumb up and down Brittany's cheek, watching as she rakes over the freckles again, mimicking her actions from their first morning together. "In your element. Happy. Free. It's like…I don't know," she sighs, "watching magic happen."
Brittany grins, maintaining eye contact as she leans into Santana's touch. Her lips curl into a small, shy smile. "Magic, huh?" she teases.
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late," Brittany jokes, standing. She brushes off her leggings and sips her water before holding her hand out to Santana.
Santana takes her hand without hesitation, threading her fingers between Brittany's.
With a slight tug, Brittany leads her to the exit, grabbing her duffle bag as they pass and swiftly swinging it over her shoulder. "Just you wait," she says. "There's more magic in the making."