The night is warm as they enter his house, slipping through the doorway after a short walk home. His mother is asleep already, head lolled slightly to the side, the television playing a flickering 70s sitcom. She lets go of his hand and trudges down the hallway; while she seems free to go back into the room, he must stay behind and fix what is broken.

The slip she wears is nearly transparent, but it's soft and silky, and produces the right amount of space for her growing baby bump. She curls herself under the covers, pulling the flimsy sheet up to her chin.

The door closes behind her, and she hears the rustling of fabric as he removes his shirt, settling into bed next to her. His hands lay at rest on her skin, and he presses a welcoming kiss to her neck, nuzzling his nose into the nape. "Hey."

She sighs, half-contentment and half-weariness, squirming languidly under the touch. "Hi."

"I missed you after sixth," he murmurs into her hair, the words muffled. "Where were you?"

Memories of her encounter with Mr. Schuster flood through her, and she flinches almost at once. He seems to feel the movement, but says nothing; he always waits for the explanation.

"I..." She doesn't quite know what to say. "I made the Glist." It seems silly now that she confesses it, that she'd worked up over something so small. "Mr. Schuester found out. He covered; I'm okay."

He doesn't say a thing for some time. Then: "You made me number three." Of course, that'd be his first reaction.

She turns, a grin forming on her face. "Poor baby," she coos in sarcasm, rolling her eyes. "Your pride's hurt, isn't it?" She reaches up, capturing his lips in a kiss. "Don't worry," she laughs, pulling him down for another kiss, "you're definitely number two."

"Not number one?" His pride appears hurt once more.

"That'd take me down from number one," she points out.

"Always number one," he grumbles, but there's a laughing tone to his voice, and he kisses her once more. Joy shines in his eyes, and he rolls over so she sits atop him, lifting his head to kiss her again. He never seems to be able to stop kissing her.

She laughs, but it suddenly appears hollow to her; and she remembers yet again why she did it.

"Puck," she murmurs, trying to stop him, though her smile proves she doesn't hate his kisses too much, "do you think I'm a bad person?"

He frowns, pulling back. "I think you're a bitch," he agrees. Before she can protest, he continues, "But it's hot. You're hot. You're a bitch and it's not like it matters."

She rolls her eyes fondly once more. "'Cause I'm hot."

"And you're mine," he adds.

She rolls to her side again, burying her face into his arm. She stops the tears before they can come; she must never cry in front of him. She only did it once, and a fine mistake that was. "How can you say that," she whispers, "when my body is going all... funhouse mirror-y?"

He pauses, as if he's not quite sure. "I don't know." He shrugs and lifts his arm to wrap around her frail frame. "Because... that's mine, too."

It's as if her tears the afternoon before meant nothing; they meant nothing at all. Why be so sad? Why be so alone? Why make the Glist, and make him third, even when he doesn't deserve it? Why care about any of it? She had Finn once, and she was popular. And she'll... gain it all back, with Puck. And more. More than she could ever dream of.

"Yes, Puck. It's all yours." She laughs, but a lump in her throat has formed, and she knows she's about to cry. "I hate you for it."

He looks down at her; his eyes twinkle with mischief, and he grins wolf-like before answering. "You love me," he counters.

"Not as much as you love you." More laughter.

"You love you more than I love me." He rolls his eyes.

"I know that you love you more than I love you and more than I love me put together." Her mind begins to ache with the effort of remembering what the hell she's saying.

"You love me?" His cocky ego astounds her.

"Almost as much as you love me." And she won't be outdone.