Notes: A gazillion thanks to Muriel for her unending patience and mad beta/teaching skills, and to Mia for being the beta to my confused alpha.

Britt | 11:28 a.m.

San! Did u leave the pretty bag of green DOTS in my locker, or was that the gnomes?

Me | 11:28 a.m.

Me, goofball =) Bring lunch to janitor's closet. Gots a surprise for u ;)

Britt | 11:29 a.m.

YAY! I love being ur girlfriend. And I love YOU!

Me | 11:29 a.m.

I love you too BrittBritt 3 See u soon.

Me | 11:30 a.m.

Girlfriend.

I still wasn't used to that word: the sound of it; the look of it; the pattern my fingers followed while typing it—like one of Britt's dances. Girlfriend. I tried to breathe so the pressure wouldn't build up and explode all over my glorious set-up.

Hellz yes, I had a set-up. You think I'd lure my girlfriend into the janitor's closet with nothing but Mr. Kidney's rags to look at? I'd draped our favorite tablecloth—the "door" of all our cuddle forts since the 4th grade—over some stacked up crates, and topped it with a single candle. The white Christmas lights I'd strung from the ceiling lit up fresh daisies scattered around the space. I tried to put one in every place we'd kissed, but that's basically everywhere in that closet, so. Plus, I couldn't steal all the flowers from my neighbor's garden; what would Britt look at when we drove home?

So, fine. Maybe my extreme janitor's closet makeover wasn't glorious, but I knew Britt would totally love it. At first I wanted to make it look like Breadstix, 'cuz that's where I finally worked up the ladyballs to ask if we were dating. And we totes are. Exactly one week ago, at Breadstix, I held my girlfriend's hand in public for the first time. Well, under a napkin. I'm working on it, okay?

But I couldn't make the closet look like Breadstix, 'cuz the thing is, Breadstix doesn't have candles. Candles are like, pretty much Britt's favorite thing. She likes to watch how the flame moves. Not moves; dances, she tells me. She tries to make me watch it dance too, but I'd rather watch the dance in her eyes: each fleck of blue lifts and holds the flickering orange light as the slight, delicate jumps of her irises follow the very tip of the flame. She dances with candles, just like she dances with people and music and everything around her, even when she's still; she dances like poetry too beautiful for words.

So just when I started to have a myocardial infarction because maybe this wasn't such a great idea—why would Britt want to have a date in a closet?—the door cracked open, a sliver of light slicing across the table. I jumped like, all the way to the ceiling. Since when does that door sound like Coach's human cannon?

"Santana…?"

Oh God. She's here. Is there a defibrillator in here? Shit. Calm down. Get the door!

I skittered over to the door, opening it with one hand and taking Britt's two-lunch tray with the other. "Hey Britt! Uhm, that was fast. How are you?"

What kind of question is that—calm down! Stop it with the scared puppy face. Normal face. No, smile. Smiling's better. And breathe.

Britt gave me her best wrinkle-nosed smile—Oh God she's going to melt me with her cuteness—as her eyes adjusted to the dark closet.

"Um, I'm good? I just saw you, silly. So… what's up? What are we doing in he-…" she trailed off as she took in my set-up. Her eyes widened with excitement as they traced the Christmas lights, flitting down to take in every daisy along the way. Her mouth fell open a little, the corners tugging up into a smile, when her eyes came to rest on the candle. "San? What is this?"

"Um, well, it's our one week anniversary? I thought… we could celebrate? Maybe? But if you don't like it—"

"I LOVE it!" Brittany beamed, brightening the room with her giddy smile. She lunged at me, but stopped midair like a ninja when her eye caught the tray of spaghetti I was still holding. It's a good thing she noticed, because I would have dropped it if she'd touched me; I couldn't feel my hands on the tray at all. I'm pretty sure my brain or maybe my entire nervous system had gone A.W.O.L.

Breathe, Santana. She likes it. She LOVES it. She hopped over to the table and did a cute little dance, pointing so I'd set down the tray. "Santana, I love it! It's beautiful! But… one week anniversary?"

My heart dropped all the way to my stomach, then slung back up to lodge in my throat. Is it the wrong day? Am I such a nervous dork that I can't even count the days? Or are we not really dating. We're not really dating and this was a huge mistake and now she's going to think I'm an idiot. What did I—

"Ohhhhhhhh! You mean it's our one week girlfriend-iversary, right?" She flashed her Santana-you're-ridiculous-and-the-super-cutest-thing-ever smile, clasping her hands as she swayed side-to-side. She remembered. Breathe, you goon. I nodded as I tried to swallow my heart. "Sorry, I got confused. It's more like our one-million week anniversary, but I guess it's only a week since you figured it out." She winked at me, which I'm pretty surprised didn't make me pass out or at least buckle at the knees. Why is everything she does so damn intoxicating?

I forced myself to take an embarrassingly shaky breath. I could feel red heat creep up my cheeks, and was definitely grinning like a total moron—which is only okay because Britt thinks it's cute or whatever. That's my excuse for a lot of things, lately. "So, um… you like it?"

"Santana, I LOVE it!" Brittany pounced at me again; I saw the candle light shudder violently around the walls as Britt bumped the table on her way. I heard nothing but the rush of blood in my ears as Britt wrapped her arms around my waist; she pulled her me in close and nuzzled my nose and my cheek. I threaded my arms up around Britt's neck and pulled her into a gentle kiss. This totally wasn't the plan, but who was I kidding—it's us. Not kissing is not an option. Just, you know, in private.

As Britt pulled me in tighter, deepening our kiss, my whole body started to heat up; I swear Britt's kisses can set me on fire. Hell, I could even see flames erupting behind all the hotness that is my girlfriend.

"Fire…" I mumbled into her lips. My muscles set on Lima Heights Attack Mode and pulled Britt in protectively, waiting for my brain to find its way back from sweet-lady-heaven. This isn't… this feels… oh shit.

"Mmph, you set my heart on fire too, San."

"No, FIRE!" I grabbed Brittany's shoulders and spun her behind me. Shit—candle knocked over. Table on fire. "Shit! Shit! Britt get out, I got this— shiiiiit!" I flung the non-inferno end of the tablecloth onto the flames as I searched the closet for some liquid that wasn't flammable. Can't die. Not now. Save girlfriend.

It was Brittany who, with her unicorn genius and dancer strength, picked up a giant mop bucket and doused the fire with a flood of soapy water. I leapt over to her, grabbed her elbow and tugged her away from the hissing, smoking table.

We stood frozen together in stunned, bug-eyed silence, our hearts thudding frantically through the small space that separated them, Are you ok? Are you hurt? Are we dead? Did that just happen?

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.

"NO!" I tried to yell at the smoke detector, but there was too much smoke to see the damn thing. "No no no NOTHERE'SNOFIRESHUTUPYOUPIECEOF— NOOOOOOhohoooooooooo!" I sank into the floor as the sprinkler started to rain on a non-existent fire. My logic was flawless and the sprinkler didn't listen: I earned the right to be dramatic, ok?

"San, come on!" Britt pulled me up by the armpits, gripping my hand protectively as she dragged me towards the door like a superhero. The second she flung the door open, I dropped her hand by reflex. I felt like the worst girlfriend ever.

But I didn't have time to feel guilty: it was freaking Armageddon in the hallway.

"MAH WEAVE!" Hearing that of all things over the alarm and the panicked screams just made this fiasco totally worth it. Suppressing a laugh, I scanned the wet anarchy around me for the source of the funniest damn thing I'd heard all day—Wheezy. She was running with her hands flailing over her head, like she thought the water could make her hair look worse or something. Coach stalked behind Wheezy with her bullhorn making this awful piercing noise, like it was about to explode. "You think fixing THAT is hard? Try fixing your hair after you've bleached it with Napalm, THAT'S hard!" Zizes skulked down the hallway behind them both, looking like she wanted to kill something. She always looks like that, so I doubt it was the sprinklers. I briefly wondered if she could even feel the droplets through that white rhino skin of hers.

Kurt and Blaine were huddled under a super-gay Burberry umbrella that matched Kurt's super-gay scarf. Just as I wondered if they could look any gayer, Blaine turned to look at Kurt, wiggled the triangular caterpillars on his forehead, and burst into a chorus of "Singing in the Rain." Kurt screeched like a grandma when Blaine snatched the umbrella; of course he knew the choreography and just had to do it. Gay-diddy-gay-gay. Thank God it only lasted for five seconds: one of the umbrella prongs caught on Jewfro's fro, which made both him and Berry's furry man-clone slide across the floor. I wish I'd had my camera for that one.

So watching this was fun and all, but Britt's nicer than me and doesn't like when there's violence—you know, unless it's happening to Rachel. She put on her most Presidential look, puffing out her chest and ignoring the downpour as she announced, "Attention everyone! Everything is okay! There's not a fire, it's ju-mblhmph!" She sounded so smart and awesome, but I had to clap my hand over her mouth.

"Britt," I told her, flinching each time one of those damn water droplets got in my eye, "we can't tell them that! They'll know it was us! Just… just act like everyone else, 'kay?" Britt nodded, which made my hand slip up her nose. Awkward. But she's perfect, so instead of making it even more awkward she scrunched up her face in the cutest giggle ever, batting my hand away. I swear if she doesn't melt me someday…

She locked her gaze with mine to make sure I saw the spark in her eyes: the one that meant she was about to make me grin like a dork, no matter how hard I tried not to. Before I could make myself give her a stern look, Britt took off down the wet hallway in a sprint. That's right, my girl doesn't walk on water. She runs, bitches.

So, just with that she already had me smiling like a nerd. I had to do something to keep up my street cred, like cover my mouth or whatever; it's not anyone's business how cute I think my girlfriend is, okay? Anyway, I'm sure it just looked like I wanted to keep the water from getting in my mouth, because, ew.

My perfectly penciled eyebrows nearly flew off my face when I saw where Britt was headed: toward a very wet, totally freaked-out Berry, who was fumbling with her locker. Britt jumped and slid into the little dwarf, knocking her off her feet. Another moment I wish I had my camera: the hobbit actually yelped, "Oh DEAR!"—I mean, who says that?—as she flipped backwards over Britt, landing with a satisfying wet splack.

Too stunned to take in the sting I hoped she'd feel later, Yentl hopped to her sock-covered knees and started yammering, "B-BBrittany, are you alright? At first I thought perhaps you were running towards me on purpose, but I don't really see any reason you would engage in such behavior during a state of emergency, or at least I assume there's a fire because the fire alarms are going off as are the sprinklers, which better be doing their job because I have twelve hours worth of sheet music stored in my locker as I was hoping to persuade the New Directions to choose three songs from my repertoire because we all know that-" thunk, face-to-locker. I tossed up a prayer that she'd busted her yapper. It was in vain. "-That it would be in our best interest to feature me vocally as that is how we've always-" splack, back on her ass.

Britt moved to stand over Berry, throwing me an evil smirk as she "helped" her into just the right position to let her feet slide around like a frantic puppet's. God, I love her. "Brittany," the hobbit grunted in her best impression of a person, "perhaps it would be in both our best interests to evacuate in an 'every man, or rather woman, for his or herself' sort of fashion, I appreciate your help but-" splack.

Brittany: 4, Hobbit: 0.

Brittany dropped the flailing dwarf, dancing around the wet, yelling mops of hair in the hall as she made her way back to me. I almost wanted her to stay on the other side of the hall, just so I could see her better; my close-range vision was obscured by my super-awesome water safety plan of pulling my Cheerios jacket over my head. Britt bounced on her heels before stooping down a few inches to catch my eye under my impenetrable jacket-shield.

"What?" I said, trying to stay 'hood, "I gotz to keep my razor blazes from rusting." Mere mortals fear Lima Heights Santana, but Britt thinks my alter ego is cute or something. She bounced back on her heels again and grinned at me, snuggling under my jacket till her nose was touching mine.

I had to catch my breath—had I been holding it?—as I startled backwards into the wall. Every muscle was on alert; ready to bolt. Coward. Britt's chest sank and her smile faded, like someone just told her rainbows weren't real. And that someone was me, her girlfriend, the person charged with the most important job in the world: making her happy. I tried to tell her how sorry I was with my eyes, pleading, I love you, I do, but I can't. Not here, not now, not yet…

"I wasn't gonna… you know. But no one's looking, Santana. They wouldn't notice if I did…" I pulled my jacket down to get a better look at Britt, frizzy hair and raccoon eyes be damned. She looked like a goddess, like a glowing angel someone photoshopped onto the madness of the hallway. She was drenched, and somehow all the more beautiful for it. Her blonde ponytail had turned to sandy strands stuck around the back of her neck and cheek; her eyes shone bluer than usual, the water from the sprinklers refracting indigo, and ocean, and sky. She tilted her head, silently asking me a thousand questions and giving me a thousand answers at once.

"It's like the napkin!" she said, rocking forward, but keeping her distance with an understanding smile on her face. What did I do to deserve her? "Except it's wet. And covering everyone instead of just our hands." I searched her eyes for the courage it would take to look anywhere but at her; what if everyone was staring, whispering, what if they saw, what if they knew?

Britt nodded towards the hall, and I followed her gaze.

Jewfro was stumbling around, still trying to pull Kurt's gay-brella out of his hair. Count Boozy was yelling at random students to "get through this together" while guiding them towards the door; his face was so close to one girl's neck that I considered calling child protective services. Or maybe that Buffy chick. Finnocence had resorted to flinging his pet hamster of a girlfriend over his shoulder, and was slipping around like a goon while she grabbed random students in protest of her "forcible displacement"—or whatever words she'd probably just made up. Britt was right: no one was looking.

I looked back around at Brittany, who was smiling patiently as ever. She nudged her hand forward just the tiniest bit, offering it to me. I looked back and forth between Britt's eyes and her hand; eyes, hand, eyes, Jewfro, hand. I steeled myself against the icy wall of fear closing in on me, strangling me. I'm Santana Fucking Lopez, I can do whatever the hell I want. Right?

The fear was getting closer, tighter; I could take her hand, I could run, or I could just suffocate and die right there. I looked back into Britt's eyes. They were steady, calm, patient; they refused to betray what I knew to be true: to her, holding my hand would be worth a million closet lunches.

Fuck this.

I reached out my hand. I couldn't feel my body. I'm pretty sure my heart stopped and my lungs collapsed and my brain shut down.

When Britt's hand fell into mine, it restarted my heart, my brain, my lungs; all that with just a gentle squeeze from her warm, wet, perfect hand. My girlfriend's hand.

She nudged my shoulder and gave me this dazzling smile that said, I love you, you're holding my hand, and we almost burned down the school. Best. Day. Ever.

And how could I not smile back? I love you, I'm holding your hand, and maybe I should make arson a lifestyle.