Disclaimer: I own nothing! Everything belongs to FOX and Ryan Murphy.

AN: So...this is my first time posting on here. Ever. I'm kind of scared. I've been posting my fics on LJ for a while now but this is all new to me and quite honestly I still have no idea how to work most of the doohickeys on here. So bear with me if I screw anything up (which I inevitably will manage to do). At any rate, here is the first of many stories I'll be uploading here.

Title and story inspired by the song "Sins of My Youth" by Neon Trees. Hope you enjoy! Reviews and constructive criticism are always appreciated.

It's been three weeks. Three unbearable weeks since he clambered with his duffel bag onto one of three school buses in the McKinley High parking lot, waving goodbye to his mom, Kurt, Burt, and Rachel, his girlfriend's (he just can't get over calling her that) last pouting kiss still hanging on his lips and helping him to somehow manage a smile.

He'd only gotten to enjoy being hers—and having her to call his own in return—for a few weeks, and then he had to leave and waste three weeks of precious summer vacation at this football camp at Miami of Ohio instead of spending them with her at the pool. Or the park. Or the movies. Or his house—or hers—preferably behind a shut and locked bedroom door, whispering and laughing and kissing sweetly (and sometimes not so sweetly) over and over.

Now he's leaving his house only an hour after returning home, practically throwing himself into his truck.

He's missed her. So much that sometimes it had hurt more than getting creamed by the giant linebacker from Columbus during scrimmage games at camp. Okay, well it didn't just hurt that much sometimes—in fact he would have rather been tackled by Mr. Linebacker a hundred times a day if it meant that he would get to see her afterwards.

"Dude," Puck had said in their dorm one night after watching him text her and then fidget while he waited for her replies, "you're so fucking whipped."

He knows, and he'd reassured Puck that he does. He's known that Rachel Barbra Berry has him wrapped around her precious, tiny finger from the moment he first sang with her all those months ago, her voice filling him up to the brim with everything he'd never truly felt before: happiness, ecstasy, and heck, even back then, love (though he hadn't been so honest with himself about that at first).

As he pulls into her subdivision now, he smiles to himself as the familiar but never-tiring feeling of gratitude returns to him. He honestly wouldn't know what to do with himself if she'd turned him down for good. There are so many reasons for her to, and he knows it. He'd lied to her to get her to come back to glee club; he'd been an idiot and dumped her instead of quitting all his "moping and bitching and shit" (as Puck had so elegantly stated) about not being over Quinn; and then Jesse St. James had stepped in and torn her apart all over again, and that was the moment Finn had decided that he'd make sure it would be the last time she'd ever have to deal with something like that. He'd been there for her, steadfast and tender, when she needed to talk or just to be held and comforted while the team had prepared for Regionals, just like she'd done for him after the babygate (and deep down he thanked his lucky stars she didn't go down the wrong path like he had). And then she'd kissed him in that stairwell, so unexpectedly but totally welcome all the same, and oh, Lord had he been happy. So unbelievably happy that even on the long, painfully silent bus ride home from Regionals, he'd been able to bear it somehow and he'd let her cry bitterly into his shoulder instead. And they'd kissed softly in his car when he'd driven her home, and then hungrily, desperately, like they were willing all their energy in the front seat of the car to turn the clock back by a few months.

And then, somehow, things had turned out all right, for glee club and for them. And he's determined to never have another reason to need a second chance again.

He starts to get antsy when he pulls into her driveway. He's barely shut off the car when he sees her door swing open on the front porch, and as he flings open his own car door and scrambles onto the sidewalk leading to the porch, her tiny (smokin') body emerges from the doorway as she bounces down the stairs.

They meet each other halfway on the sidewalk, and she can barely get a "Hello" out of her mouth before he's covering it with his lips, resting his hands around her waist, and effortlessly scooping her off of the ground. She shrieks softly with laughter and then buries her still-smiling face against his shoulder, giggling as he sets her back on her feet again and hangs onto her for dear life.

Lord, how he's missed her. And he tells her so as he kisses her over and over, murmuring against her lips, "God, I missed you—I missed you so much—"

She abruptly cuts him off, placing a hand firmly against his hungry lips. "Save some of this for inside." She smiles sweetly, but his jaw practically drops and he has to summon the mailman a hundred times over when a glimmer of something else—something along the lines of hot desire—twinkles just behind the love in her eyes. She adds in a lowered voice, "My dads are at work until seven."

He smiles back and chuckles, already hearing the huskiness work its way into his voice as he responds, "Six whole hours?"

She doesn't answer, only grabs him by the arm and pulls him inside, giggling all the way.

They make out for an hour, and then lay on her bed, kissing softly in between bouts of the long-overdue whispering and laughing that he's longed so much for. After two and a half hours she begins to doze in his arms, and after she's asleep her steady breathing begins to lull him the same way that his warmth does her.

He loves her so much that it scares him; just thinking about losing her again sends a stab of anxiety through his body. He knows he's not very smart, and he sure as hell knows he hasn't always been the greatest guy (to her or in general—mostly both), but he's changing that every day, turning himself around, making himself the Finn Hudson that she believes is there inside him. Because, really, he wouldn't want to be any other Finn Hudson but hers.

The first day of junior year arrives. Proudly stepping out of her car with her newly-acquired driver's license, Rachel beams at him where he stands in his assigned parking spot two rows down from hers. He grins, slings his backpack over one shoulder, and threads his fingers through hers with his other hand after crossing the lot to meet her.

"Morning, sunshine," he murmurs, and she giggles and leans into his arm as they begin to make their way toward the school building.

"Good morning to you, too, Finn."

"When's your lunch?" He knows well by now that he has no classes with her, because she's all genius-y and he's, well, not (even though she still scolds him every time he calls himself stupid), so lunch is their only chance to see each other during the day. He smiles to himself when she extracts a pink leather planner from her backpack, flips it open to the first of many immaculate, clutter-free pages, and traces her finger over her class schedule, taped precisely in the center of the page.

"Fifth period on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Fridays; fourth on Wednesdays and Thursdays."

He reaches into his pocket and takes out his own, folded-up schedule, and then frowns and even throws in a bit of a pout (he's got this theory that she'll always, always kiss him when he's in need of cheering up). "We only have lunch together Monday and Thursday," he tells her, and she looks only a little disappointed.

"Today is a Monday; and we still have glee," she points out, smiling sweetly up at him and raising herself up on tiptoe in mid step to give him a soft, reassuring kiss (he knew it!). "And," she adds lightly, "you could always come over after school. We could do homework." She pauses and watches, stifling laughter as he tries to conceal his displeasure at the thought of schoolwork, and then she adds, "Or other, just as important activities."

A giggle escapes her now when he grins widely down at her.

"I love you," he murmurs suddenly and softly, and she beams up at him with that smile that he's convinced will always appear whenever he says those three little words. He doesn't wait for her to push herself onto her toes this time, leaning down and pressing his lips affectionately to her forehead just as they reach the concrete steps leading to the main school entrance.

He ignores the surprised—and occasionally annoyed—looks that people give them as they ascend the stairs, still hand in hand. He wonders why it isn't as obvious to everyone else as it is to him—they're an unexpected combination, true, but he loves her even with those (easily overlooked) imperfections that she's so sensitive towards (even though she'd never admit that to anyone but him) and she loves him despite his tendency to fuck things up. Which is cool, because he's been in a relationship that mostly involved him getting screamed at for doing something wrong or different than what he was told and he'd rather not go down that road again. Ever.

"See you at lunch?" They reach her locker, closer to the school entrance than his; her voice makes her words more of an affirmation than a question.

"Yeah." Kissing quickly once more, they smile to one another, and then he turns and makes his way to his locker in the next hallway.

By the end of second period, though, things have already come crashing down in a matter of seconds.

He's walking to geometry class when, behind him, he hears obnoxious laughter and shouting at the other end of the hallway. He turns, curiosity peaked, and cranes his neck to see what all the fuss is.

His blood boils.

Rachel stands in the middle of the hallway, surrounded by Karofsky and his cronies, her pretty lavender sweater and her even-prettier face drenched in bright green slush. She tries in vain to salvage her sparkly pink notebook and the slushie-soaked pages of her psychology textbook, blinking rapidly and clenching her trembling jaw, frantically looking for any nearby girls' room.

Aw. Fuck.

It's like he's on autopilot now, pushing past people, zeroing in on Karofsky, grabbing the shoulder of his letterman jacket as he turns his back on Rachel; hearing her call out, "Finn!" but too pissed to care; not feeling or hearing his fist connect with Karofsky's jaw, then his stomach; now feeling Karofsky's hand close around his chin and slam him against the locker; sending his knee straight into Karofsky's gut; hearing people begin to surround them, Fight fight fight; hitting the floor, mustering the strength to flip all two hundred and sixty pounds of Karofsky onto his back; pulverizing the jackass's face, not caring that two fists are hitting him back just as hard, before a pair of strong hands grip him from behind by the biceps and yank him off, locking whoever's arms around his, hoisting him up, holding him back, while Mr. Schuester does the same to Karofsky as he tries to go after Finn.

Mr. Schuester goes in front of Karofsky now. "Easy, easy!"

"Stay the hell away from my girlfriend!" Finn hollers, jabbing a finger at Karofsky and still struggling against his restraint.

"Dude!" Puck yells, identifying himself as the person whose arms continue to hold Finn in an iron grip. "Dude, calm down, please!"

He's never heard Puck say "please" in the eleven years he's known him, and it breaks through his thickened consciousness, brings him back to earth, where he stands panting and painfully throbbing in his stomach and face and neck.

"He started it!" Karofsky growls, still struggling in vain against Mr. Schuester while Finn just stands there, suddenly feeling self-conscious under his teacher's eyes, fatherly and concerned.

"Easy," Mr. Schuester echoes firmly, glancing back at Karofsky again. "Both of you—Figgin's office—one hour."

He releases Karofsky, who glares and sneers at the same time to Finn, and then stalks down the hallway, people parting in his path to make way for him. Everyone starts to disperse; Puck claps Finn once on the shoulder.

"Take it easy, dude," he says, trying to lighten the mood. "It's only the first day."

Finn just nods and smiles weakly at him, feeling but not able to meet the pair of chocolate-brown eyes resting on him.

They stand in silence, his eyes on the floor and her eyes on his face. Finally, after a few seconds, he manages to raise his gaze to meet hers. There's gratitude, guilt, disappointment, and warm concern all inside her eyes.

"You're bleeding," she informs him, her voice barely above a whisper, taking his hand and leading him toward the flight of stairs nearest to them. Inside he knows she's really saying "I wish you hadn't done that," and it makes him feel crappier than ever.

Offering a heavy-hearted apology (he really was just trying to be a good boyfriend), he follows her down the steps, realizing she's taking him to the nurse's office. They've taken the back staircase, footsteps echoing off of the walls of the otherwise-silent space.

Hesitating at the bottom of the first floor flight, she tugs on his arm, stopping him, and he turns and sees her eyes tightly shut behind the now-gooey sugary slush.

"Finn," she says quietly, "is this how it's always going to be?"

He pulls her against his chest.

"I don't know, Rach. But I don't care."

"I don't want you to be unhappy just because of me," she whispers.

He grasps her shoulders and holds her away from him, staring her resolutely in the eyes.

"Don't you get it, Rach?"

She blinks, and a look of horror washes over her face. Oh god, he's mad at her. Oh god, she's done something wrong. Oh god, here comes another breakup…

"I'm already happy. You're like, the first girl to ever give more than a crap about my feelings, and you're the first girl I've ever felt this way about, and you're always so smart and sure of yourself and you believe in me, and I love you for all that stuff and so much more, Rach; just knowing that," he pauses, trying to find the right words while hugging her to his chest again, "just knowing that we can finally do this makes me happy enough to just forget about assholes like Karofsky. You know?"

She winds her arms tightly around his waist and gives him a small smile.

"I love you, too," she murmurs. She stares up at him, eyes suddenly bright and alert. "But you really should learn to express emotions in a more mature, less violent manner, Finn. I understand that we're teenagers and your hormones are no doubt in a chaotic tumult, especially when something like this"—she points to the slushie all over her head and shoulders—"occurs; but we're upperclassmen now, and after next year we'll be graduating and moving on to the future: to college and the work field, and there's no room in the real world for men—or rather, boys—who still use their fists instead of words."

He thinks to himself how he sure hopes she'll be there, his and only his, to remind him of that in the future. Because as hazy as that way-far-away time is, the one thing that he knows that he wants, no, needs there is the girl standing in front of him—his quirky, sweet, beautiful, perfect Rachel Barbra Berry.

She holds the ice gently to his face in the nurse's office until the nurse leaves to hunt down some clothes from the lost and found for Rachel. That's when she drops the cold pack and kisses him until both of them see stars.

Things go relatively smoothly for the next four months. They go out on the weekends and see each other during lunch and glee on weekdays; they go over to each other's houses and do homework (and make out, just like she promised). They almost get to third base a couple of times, before he stops and tells her between ragged breaths that he wants to go slow, which she is totally fine with, because after her two disastrous relationships (if she can even call them that) with Puck and Jesse, a guy who truly wants to wait is fine with her, even though, with Finn's general attitude about intimacy, he never seemed to have any reservations about it.

So on the first day of Christmas break, while his mom is at work for the day, they're making out on his couch, hands going to all the places that they both know pushes the other just a little bit further out of control; and she can't help but be miffed when her fingers trail toward the button and zipper of his jeans and he automatically freezes up, pries his lips off of hers, and lays there over top of her, panting and holding his face away from hers.

She groans, "What is it?" and screws her eyes shut, pounding her head back against the pillow. "What am I doing wrong?"

He blinks and stares at her, dumbstruck, as her lower lip quivers and she whimpers just barely.

"I just want to…" she trails off, looking back and forth but never at him, "I just want to be with you but you don't want to," she whispers, and he sees a lone tear escape and pool just below her eye.

"No, no, no…" He gently cups her cheek with one hand, tracing his thumb over her skin. "Crap, Rach, I'm so sorry—I'm sorry, baby," he murmurs and flips them over, cradling her on top of him as she nestles her face into the crook of his neck, sniffing quietly.

"I just want to know what I'm doing wrong," she repeats, her voice muffled by his sweatshirt.

"Nothing," he insists, smoothing her hair with his hand and kissing the soft skin of her cheek just in front of her ear, whispering, "God, Rachel, you're…you're so perfect."

"No I'm not," she mutters, still talking into his shoulder. "I'm bossy and annoying and moody."

"Stop," he breathes into her ear, kissing her cheek softly again.

"Is that why you don't want to be with me, Finn?"

"Rach, we've been dating for almost seven months." He takes her face in his hands, moving her head until she's staring directly into his eyes. "I love you," he says firmly, smiling at her. "So, so much."

"No, I mean…" she trails off, her face flushing. "It just seems like you don't want to…be with me," she says again, raising her eyebrows.

His eyes feel like they pop out of his head.

"Don't want to?" he echoes incredulously. "Rach…God, Rachel, you have no idea how much I want you."

"Then why can't we just—"

"I just don't think we're ready." He pauses. "I'm not ready. I can't—I can't let myself go there yet." Briefly, a flash of light pink satin and sleazy motel wallpaper and catlike nails digging into his chest, pulling him down onto a lumpy, musty mattress—thrusting and failing to pound out all the anger and jealousy and heartache—wanting to kill himself as soon as it's over.

She watches his eyes grow distant, and she frowns to herself, worried but respecting his decision all the same.

"Okay," she murmurs, touching her fingertips to his lips. "We'll go slow."

He can still sense the confusion and self-doubt swirling behind her determined eyes, and he pulls her head gently downward, meeting her lips in a tender kiss.

He knows that sooner or later he's going to have to tell her. He hadn't expected her to be so…eager to go all the way, and that means he hadn't expected for all this to come back and bite him in the ass so soon. It scares him, because he knows that she could very easily blow a gasket the minute she discovers the truth and refuse to speak to him ever again (there goes his whole hope for no more need of second chances), and he can't stand the thought of losing her. Not now (or ever, for that matter)—not when they're happy and finally together and so in love that it makes him wonder what he did to deserve it; at least, now that he's this happy. He hopes she's happy. He wants her to be, and he needs to know that he's the reason she's happy. He wants to be everything she'd hoped he would be.

"Um," he says against her mouth, self-conscious and unsure of how to voice his intentions. She pulls back and looks at him curiously.

"What is it?" she echoes, her voice gentle this time, less hungry.

"If…" he trails off, and she places her palm to his cheek and smiles faintly, reassuringly. He takes a deep breath. "If you want me to…y'know, touch you, um. Or like, well…y'know. I will, if you want."

She turns a little bit pink, and then slowly smiles and shakes her head.

"No," she murmurs and kisses him swiftly. "Not today. I can wait, too."

Two weeks later, on the last day of Christmas break, he touches her down there, in that sacred, secret, amazing spot. They're on his bed, making out, hotter and heavier than they've ever gotten (and they've gotten pretty intense before); her turtleneck and his shirt have both found places on the floor when she lets those six little magic words slip out between their lips.

"I want you to touch me," she tells him, her voice breathy and hot against his face.

He grips her by her hips, searching for the zipper hidden somewhere on one of those skirts that he's convinced she wears just to torment him. He finds it after a few seconds and, fingers trembling just a bit, pulls it open and pushes the baby blue and white plaid away from her body, only a purple satin bra and panties separating her from him now. He breaks the kiss and watches her, his eyes never leaving her smoldering ones, watching her as he slowly (maybe hesitantly) hooks his fingers around the top of her panties and slides them down and off, exposing her.

"Are you sure?" he asks, voice tight and trembling just like the rest of his body. Still locking her eyes with his, she begins to gnaw on her lower lip and nods, nervously clutching his forest-green blanket beneath them as he pushes her legs apart carefully, like he's afraid he's going to break her.

He touches one finger against her hot, slick core, and her reaction is immediate; she gasps, her hands flashing through the air and digging her nails into his wrists, her hips rising just barely off of the mattress. Oh, fuck, he's hurt her—he knew he'd screw it up! His hand freezes against her, and they stare at each other, eyes wide and full of every emotion.

"Why'd you stop?" she asks, her words a rush of air.

"…Huh?"

"Keep going," she whispers, lifting her hips toward him.

He touches her again, letting himself relax a little when he feels her muscles do the same, gradually speeding up the pace of his fingers as they move back and forth over her, her moans getting louder and higher in pitch.

Somehow, in the midst of watching her (he's imagined her like this before when he's rubbing one out alone at home, but holy shit, this is…oh, God) and trying to control the now raging boner he has, he thinks coherently that maybe he should go further. He slips one finger inside of her and she lets out a moan that makes his blood surge, and when he dips a second finger in and curls them up and back, he's certain that there is no sight more beautiful than Rachel Berry on the verge of losing control.

This is what it should have been like before. And not with Santana. It should have always been Rachel.

When she cries out after nearly two minutes and he feels her muscles clamp down on his fingers, pulsing at the same speed as their hearts, he comes in his pants, too, because he's never seen a more amazing thing in his entire life and it sends him over the edge just to know that he can do this for her.

She lays there, eyelids fluttering as her head begins to return to earth. He shifts onto his side, careful not to lie on top of her, and holds her in his arms while she lies on her back, skin still flushed and damp as her breathing slows. Eventually her head lolls to the side, and she beams at him, the beginnings of tears already glistening in her eyes.

"Finn Hudson," she whispers and rolls onto her side, nuzzling her face against his chest, "you are the most wonderful person I've ever met."

Feeling a punch of guilt in his gut, he knows he has no right to answer that, because he certainly doesn't feel like a man, even after what he—they have just done; so instead he holds her to his chest and kisses her hair over and over. No, I'm really not, he wants to say to her, the words threatening to spill out after his spoken "I love you, Rachel—I love you so much."

In the back of his mind, he can't help but be afraid that he may not be allowed to tell her that as many times as he'd once hoped.

Only somewhat reluctantly, they return to school. It's a new year, but it feels the same as always—time is counted in school years at this point in their lives, so they're still the same people from before they went on Christmas break.

Only he's pretty sure that he and Rachel aren't.

After what they shared on the last day of break, he can't get enough of her—he wants all of her, all the time. He wants to do what he did for her before, only he wants them to have that moment together, closer than he'd thought possible; he wants to be able to hold her in his arms in the afterglow and talk and laugh and whisper like they always do, but have it feel so much more perfect than ever.

But when that moment finally comes, on the second day of midwinter break, he ruins it, of course.

They're on her bed this time, making out and getting into it, just like before; his shirt and her cardigan are on the floor, and he's kneading her breast underneath her soft white blouse, fingers finding their way around the flesh-toned cotton bra beneath it, and he's placing lingering, hungry kisses all along her neck, teasing her pulse point, not even bothering to summon the mailman.

"Do you want to…?" she whispers, a soft moan attached to her last word.

His first thought is damn, that's supposed to be his line, what kind of a man is he?

And then his mind freezes, terror and the feeling of being backed into a corner flooding over him.

"Um," he says dumbly and pulls his lips off of her jaw, trying to clear his hormone-buzzed mind. "I mean—do you think you're ready?"

She doesn't answer at first, but slowly she stops writhing beneath him as the effects of his kisses wear off. As she stares up at him with swollen lips and flushed skin, her blouse half unbuttoned, hair mussed on the pillow behind her, he'll be damned if Little Finn doesn't get just a little harder at that image.

"I don't know," she says, blinking rapidly. "I think so, though."

"I mean," he stammers, "it's just that we haven't really talked directly about it—I just, y'know, don't want us to rush into it…"

She slides herself up into a sitting position and straightens her shirt, smoothes her hair.

"We can talk about it now," she murmurs, her voice somehow strong and shy at the same time.

He nods and slowly shifts into a sitting position, legs crossed Indian style, and waits for her to begin (because there's no way in hell he knows how to start this conversation).

"I'm glad you want to talk, really," she admits. "Because…well…there's something you should know."

He stares at her, waiting, nervous.

"Do you remember," she murmurs, "back before Jesse first transferred to McKinley—when you went on that date with Santana the same night I was with Jesse?"

Oh, God. He feels like a thousand knives stab him over and over, plundering him with guilt and humiliation and disgust in himself.

Her voice is still quiet as she fiddles with the corner of the sham pillow she now hugs in her lap, her eyes intent on her hands, echoing, "Remember…how I had told you—inadvertently, I admit—hinted," she adds when he gets that confused look on his face at her intelligent words, "that I had slept with him?"

He nods, and then she smiles faintly, weakly at him.

"I never did," she says almost in a whisper. "I lied because I didn't want you to know that I hadn't really moved on from you."

He feels horror wash over him.

She continues, "I was afraid that it would just encourage you to keep pursuing me; that it would mess up what I thought was my first real relationship. It was a selfish move; I didn't want to have to face you every day," her voice cracks slightly, "knowing that I was singlehandedly damaging my relationship with both you and Jesse just because I was still in love with you. But I couldn't really do it, Finn—I couldn't lose my virginity to him when I always knew in the back of my mind that I wasn't over you. It—sex, making love, whatever you call it—is way too big of a step to take just because you want to try to forget about losing the person you love."

He just about runs out of her room right then and there.

"But," she goes on, and he feels his face getting redder and his stomach clenching tighter and tighter, "I think I'm ready now." Her smile glows serenely. He thinks to himself that it's the last time he's going to see it. "I want to do this. With you." She reaches over and twines her fingers with his. When he doesn't say anything for what feels like minutes, she takes his other hand. "Finn? Are you okay?"

He raises his eyes, barely able to meet her loving, worried gaze without crying.

"Look, Rach," he begins, forcing the words out, wanting to shoot himself when he sees the scared, anxious, vulnerable look in her eyes. "Since you told me that…" he takes a deep breath. "I need to tell you something, too."

She frowns, her eyes still wide and uncertain, and he takes another breath.

And then it all just…blows up.

"Remember when you told me that you'd slept with Jesse, and I told you I didn't go through with my date with Santana? Well, um—I lied, too."

He starts to cry all at once, hot, fat, ashamed tears dripping down his face.

"We went to this motel and we—we—we had sex. It was so stupid, so unbelievably fucking stupid of me, and what's worse is that it didn't even mean anything, it was like this…business deal, the way we treated it; but you were with Jesse and I was mad and hurt and I wanted to forget about you, just like you said, but it didn't help at all, in fact it only made me feel worse about myself because I knew that really don't deserve you now, not after all the awful shit I did to you when you just tried to be a good friend to me, and it was the biggest mistake I've ever made—will ever make in my entire life, Rach, and this is why I've been wanting to go slow because I don't deserve you and I know I don't, because you're like gorgeous and perfect and you always care about me and I'm just this stupid asshole who always lets you down, just like now, and I just want to make you happy but now I can't and I'm so sorry, Rach, I'm so, so sorry…"

He stops, unable to say anything more because the look on her face cuts his heart clean in half. She's staring at him, mouth just barely open, blinking rapidly, her eyes wide and sad and disbelieving.

"…W-what?" she finally whispers, stammering.

He opens his mouth but can't find the words.

"I don't—I mean, this…" she trails off and shakes her head, and it's the first time he's ever seen Rachel Berry unable to find anything to say.

"I just can't keep it from you anymore, Rach."

It hurts too much to hide it and it hurts too much to tell, but he knows which one is the right thing and if there's one thing he's learned the most from glee and Rachel and Mr. Schuester, it's that the right thing is always right no matter how much it sucks.

They sit in silence on her bed for a long time, her eyes on the empty space of pink and orange quilt between them and her hands clutching her pillow, still held in a death grip against her chest.

Suddenly, she speaks, and he looks up from his hands to see that two tears have worked their way down her face.

"I need to think," she whispers, her voice detached. "Please leave."

He hesitates for a moment, and then stands from her bed, his body full of cinderblocks, and picks up his shirt from the floor, pulling it on as he walks robotically to her door.

"I'll see you at school," she says just as he turns the knob on the door, and he pauses and looks back at her, sitting there with her pillow in her lap, staring at her hands, her eyes broken open and pouring out silent tears now.

He leaves without a word, because she wants him to and he's tired of letting her down.

TBC.