The truth is that I'm not great at uploading stuff here. I'd really check my Tumblr if I were you!

CAMPING

You pack your things and go camping.

Your old bag gets a little cramped, but it never fails to fit your gear. Your shoulders strain with the effort of carrying it to your bike, a faint ache on your muscles from the party the day before.

It's been a long night. You're still alert, muscles tense with adrenaline.

You're already getting too involved, and you've barely been here a few months.

You rev the engine with a sigh. Maybe you don't want to move again.

Sometimes a camper asks you something or does something nice and friendly in your direction.

You have manners, but the obvious lack of interest from your part means you spend most of the weekend alone.

You don't mind at all; the smell of wet mud and grass is more than enough company when you're hiking, exploring the territory.

You think of kissing her the night before: how she sighed in your mouth, the smell of alcohol when you kissed her jaw.

The night was fresh and your boots were comfortable when you drove Mark home and walked back to get your bike. It was almost dawn by then, a few waiters with boxes on their arms, and no Pierce to be seen.

You sleep as close to the river as you can; the water lulls you to sleep.

It's Sunday afternoon when you come to a stop in front of the worker's quarters.

The front steps are occupied by her, waiting for you.

"I realized I don't have your phone," she says quietly, standing straight.

"I don't have one," you say, hating how the moment feels pregnant with expectation. "I was camping."

She stares at you with purpose. "I would have liked to see you on my actual birthday."

"I'm sorry," you say, adjusting the bag on your shoulder. "Friday was a little intense."

"Yeah," it's all she offers, taking a few steps closer in the broad daylight. Every self-preservation alarm you ever had goes off.

"I'm sorry," you say, maneuvering out of her grasp and entering the building.

She doesn't come looking for you.

In your favor, you actually manage to wait a few days before doing anything.

You know where she parks her truck; you wait there, propped on the hood with your guitar on your lap.

She finds you, her skin painted in red sunset tones. You clear your throat and begin to sing. Your eyes remain on the ground and your guitar, never on her reaction.

Your fingers are trembling when you play the last note and dare to look at her face; she's standing right in front of you.

"I'm sorry," you offer again, hoping it still has value, "I'm not good at this."

"I wasn't going to kiss you in public."

"I panicked." The tips of your fingers run on the chords, drawing a strangled sound. "I missed you."

She nods, examining your face for a long moment. The sky darkens. "I like you."

You don't want to say anything. She looks at you and you give in. "I like you, too. Very much."

She fights back a grin, but you can see it. Your fingers find the hem of her pants to pull her closer, tentative.

She kisses you once, twice, three times before someone inside calls her for dinner. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are shining in the dark.

You're smiling like a fool. "See you around."

She kisses you one last time, quick and sweet, before running inside.

The next day she wears the watch you gave her.

She's gorgeous: flowery summer dress and flats, her hair down and skin fresh. Her eyebrows rise a bit when she sees you at the deposit.

It's not your usual spot. You're fixing one of the tractors, body leaning over the engine, grease and dirt and dried sweat all over your muscle shirt and arms.

You flex your arms harder than necessary, enjoying how her gaze lingers, turning hungry and open and wild.

Mark comes back with the equipment and you discuss possible solutions, very aware of her eyes on you.

She kisses you behind the deposit, open-mouthed and wet, exploring your mouth.

You keep your distance because you don't want to ruin her pretty pretty dress with your dirty clothes. You behave.

She doesn't. "You're so hot," she whispers between kisses, hand sneaking under your shirt and nails scratching your stomach.

Mark clatters something inside. "Britt," you try, a little breathless, "not here," but she kisses you again and guides your – thankfully washed – hands under her dress.

You grab two handfuls of her ass, moaning, head spinning with arousal and adrenaline. If Mark finds the two of you like this you're in so much trouble, so much—

She moans in your ear. "I want to come for you, Santana," your name delicious on her mouth, your entire body burning with want. "Make me come."

"Fuck." You snap, changing positions so you're the one pressing her against the wall, riding her dress up and cupping her mound. "Is this what you want?"

She whines and nods, pulling you in for a kiss, grabbing your shirt and moving her hips.

"You'll have to be quiet," you say with authority, rubbing the heel of your palm over her panties. "Really quiet."