1. Blonde girls don't cry.

He's grounded so he watches from his bedroom window as the new neighbors move in next door. There's a bubbly blonde dancing around the front yard, pony tail swaying as she tries to carry boxes that are twice her size. Her feet tangle and she goes sprawling across the sidewalk. He expects her to cry, like that Berry girl he tripped on the playground, but she doesn't. She picks herself up and shakes it off. Her eyes scan the array of fallen toys that have tumbled from the box she'd been carrying but something distracts her and she's suddenly looking right at him. She smiles a toothy grin and waves spastically and he can't help but grin back.

2. Chicken soup for a young boy's soul.

He misses several days of school after having his tonsils out. He enjoys having the house to himself and spends most of the day playing video games and flipping through the skin magazine he swiped from the Seven-Eleven. At four o'clock the door-bell rings and despite his mother's warning not to answer the door, he does.

She's balancing a stack of books in the crook of one arm and holding a brown paper bag in the hand of the other. She nearly drops both when he steps outside but he catches the bag and she gets a grasp on the books and their toes are spared a painful interlude.

"Your mom asked me to bring by your homework," she explains.

He nods as he opens the bag and takes a look inside. "And what class is the soup for?" he teases.

She shakes her head, forehead scrunched in confusion. "It's not for class," she replies. "It's for you."

3. Not all little birdies fly away.

He's on his way home from Santana's when he spots Brittany standing in front of the large Oak tree across the street from her house. She doesn't notice him until he's standing right beside her and even then she doesn't acknowledge his presence. She glances from the tiny object cupped in her hands up into the twisted branches of the tree and that's when he notices the tear tracks glistening on her cheeks.

"Brittany?" He asks, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to decide how to get this baby bird back into its nest," she replies, opening her hands so he can see the tiny animal nestled between her fingers. Suddenly her eyes light up and she turns to him, an excited smile stretching across her lips. "I know!" she continues. "You can climb up there and put it back."

He shakes his head and states flatly, "No, I can't."

The smile quickly disappears and a fresh set of tears brim on the edge of her lashes. He curses silently and quickly looks away.

"But it'll die."

He feigns indifference but still can't bring himself to look at her. "Not my problem."

She sniffles and he mentally kicks himself.

"Look, Brittany," he tries again. "Even if I climb up there and put the little guy back, its mom will just throw him out again. You picked it up, it smells like you now. The other birds won't let it back in the nest."

He watches as her nose scrunches up and she sniffs at the air. "I stink?" she asks, a quiver in her voice.

"No, but you don't smell like a bird."

He sees the dawning in her face and sighs in relief.

"Then what should we do?"

"...We?"

She nods and he knows there's no sense in arguing with her so he thinks it over. "I don't know," he finally replies. "Put it in a shoebox or something, just make sure it stays warm and can breathe. Tomorrow after school we can take it to the animal rescue."

4. It's hard boiled but don't eat it.

When he scopes her out in the cafeteria, she's got her chin resting on her folded hands and is staring intently at their baby egg project. He takes a seat beside her, sliding his tray across the table so he can mimic her position, and asks, "Did I miss anything?"

"No," she sighs, sitting up and crossing her arms over her chest. She's completely disappointed and it shows all over her face. "How much longer do we have to wait?"

"Wait for what?" he asks, spinning the egg in circles.

"For it to hatch," she replies.

His hand stills mid spin. "It's hard boiled Britt; it's not going to hatch."

5. It doesn't have to be like father like son.

He hangs around until he's sure the school is empty and then makes his way out to his truck. A familiar blonde is perched on the tailgate, legs swinging idly back and forth as she hums along to the song streaming out of her iPod. He slides up next to her and accidently knocks his knee against hers. He can feel her staring but can't bring himself to look her in the eyes.

"Does it hurt?" She asks, extending her hand towards the large bruise that's spreading across one side of his face.

His fingers curl around her wrist to stop her as he leans his head away. "Only if you touch it…or I breathe."

"Oh," she says, dropping her arm. "Why'd you do it? Why'd you sleep with Quinn?"

He shrugs because there's no good answer. He was bored. Santana was being a bitch. Finn was…well, Finn.

"I thought I loved her," he finally concedes, after several minutes of awkward silence.

"You'll be a good dad," she says, her eyes sparkling with assurance. "Not like your dad."

He nods. "Tell that to Quinn."