Staring down at scuffed shoes, the young woman tugged at her jacket, pulling the hood more closely to drape the waves that gently curled around her face. She wiggled her toes absentmindedly, noting the tip of her socks peeking out of the tips of her sneakers, worn down after years of regular wear and tear, and a few attempts at escape. She couldn't quite determine if the office she sat in was genuinely too cold, or if it was simply the contrast in temperature from the sweltering July heat she'd become a victim to, but regardless of reasoning, she could feel goose bumps creeping up and down her calves, tickling the short hairs there, and sending a shiver down her thin frame. Pulling her jacket more closely to her body, she huffed in impatience, knowing the situation she would walk into would be one she was agonizingly familiar with, and therefore not worth her time.

Bouncing in and out of foster homes, she had learned to rely on herself early in life, after losing her parents in a car wreck when she was eleven. Six years later, and she had yet to find another place she could legitimately call home. She was used to being shuttled from house to house, with occasional stops at shelters and orphanages, a word that never quite sat well with her. She was well aware that she was a handful, not exactly the type of child most parents would anticipate taking in, however, she was never given the chance to show certain aspects of her personality in the time allotted, and therefore, had elected to create walls around herself, refusing to allow anyone close even if they took the time to try.

"Santana?" She turned, meeting the cobalt blue eyes of her social worker, and stood slowly, not in any rush to walk through the muted green hallway to the third door on the right to continue this interaction. Begrudgingly, she followed the woman who had taken over her "case," after the woman before her, raging bitch that she was, finally took her maternity leave. Shutting the door behind them, the blue eyed woman, significantly softer than Edith, her previous counselor, gestured to the seat across from her desk, beckoning the small girl to take her designated place, as was habitual for the two. "We have found somewhere for you to stay for the remaining two weeks before your birthday, though it isn't exactly protocol to do so. Normally, the state would suggest that we simply keep you in a shelter, but the family insisted, after hearing all that you have been through. I wanted to confirm with you that you would be comfortable in the home, however, because a young man from your school is a member of the family. Noah Puckerman, do you know him?" Santana murmured something in the form of an affirmative, as she tugged on a loose string of her denim shorts, knowing full well who he was. "Is that situation going to be cohesive? His mother offered you a receptionist position at her dental office, and has determined that she will co-sign for an apartment for you, so long as you make the monthly payments once you've moved in. I know it's a lot to take in, but she seems dedicated to helping you, for whatever reason, and I think it would be in your best interest to comply."

Santana nodded once more, unsure of how this situation had fallen in her lap so easily. She had been babysitting since her parents died, walking dogs, cutting lawns, anything to be able to save for herself, in the event that she needed a backup plan. She'd taken a job at a local cafe once she turned sixteen, and had been working there ever since, saving every scrap she could, despite the fact that she knew when she turned eighteen, she wouldn't need to work for several years. Her father had instilled in her a strong work ethic, even when it came down to the simplest of things, like long division or washing her hands for the entirety of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, so the thought of her inheritance was far from the forefront of her mind. "I'll do it Becca, let them know. Thank you." She attempted sincerity, but knew that her words fell short, as she was not accustomed to accepting help in any way, and frankly, didn't care to accept it.

Standing up to cross the room, Rebecca gestured for young girl to come to her feet as well, wrapping her in a tight hug. Sinking into her case worker's chest, Santana allowed herself a deep breath in, hoping for a momentary scent of comfort to pervade the interaction, but was, as per usual, disappointed.

"I'll pick you up tomorrow morning, at nine, to bring you to them Santana. Try not to oversleep this time," she said with a laugh and a wink. The still hooded girl nodded again, attempting to quirk a grin, before realizing that Rebecca was already staring down at the paperwork that needed to be completed for her transfer to Puckerman household, unaware that the person she was filling those forms out for was still very much in the room. Letting out an exasperated sigh and scuffing the floor with one of her sneakers, she dug her hands into her pockets and shuffled down the familiar hallway, out of the door, and directly toward the park two blocks over.

Sinking down into one of the swings, she pulled out a beaten pack of Marlboros and lit the last one remaining, taking a few deep drags before absentmindedly beginning to sway back and forth, trying not to dread the fourteen day countdown to her eighteenth birthday. Honestly, the only thing she was looking forward to was being able to walk into a gas station and buy her own cigarettes, without having to flirt with the overly friendly middle-aged men at truck stops, who never seemed to understand why "such a pretty young thing" was uninterested in being roughly molested in the back of their big rig, with their big rig. While admittedly unshy about sexual matters, she kept her sexuality under wraps in those situations, as the last thing she needed was some burly lumberjack of a truck driver trying to "show her what she's missing." She'd had enough of the condescending looks and attempted conversions in numerous foster homes, and thus had learned to keep her mouth shut unless absolutely necessary, rather than waving a rainbow flag through the air at all times of the day or night.

However, if she were to make it through the next two weeks, she wouldn't be able to do it without a supply of nicotine, as nervous didn't begin to cover sharing a rooftop with Noah Puckerman. Slipping off of the swing set, she headed toward the nearest gas station, one in which she could usually flirt her way into a free pack of menthols with a few carefully chosen words, as the teenaged boy behind the counter more than likely had a close personal relationship with his left hand - the only relationship he'd ever managed to maintain long enough for release. Yanking her shirt down a little, and pressing her bra upward, she gave her admittedly nice-on-their-own breasts a little assistance before opening the side door to the small shop, a gently tinkling bell sounding behind her.

"Hey you," she nearly purred, her voice an octave lower, more intensely husky than it had been fifteen minutes prior, when speaking with her case worker.

After swallowing a nearly visible lump in his throat, the shop attendant managed a smile in her direction, and what she believed to be an attempt at a wink, though to be perfectly honest, it seemed more along the lines of the early stages of a bad nervous twitch. "Menthol 100's?" he managed to choke out, well aware of her standard purchase. Santana merely nodded in response, before carefully patting down her pockets.

"Shit. I don't have my wallet on me. Could you - " she cut off her sentence with a soft giggle, brushing a piece of hair behind her ear, playing shy as if he were the most handsome man she had seen in her life, and she suddenly didn't know how to act around him. He nodded quickly, a sheepish grin plastered across his face, before handing two packs to the small girl across the counter. "You know, one day I'll have to find a way to repay you for all your generosity," she whispered, before chuckling throathily, leaving the boy flushed and open mouthed as she strutted out of the gas station the same way she walked in, internally giving herself a round of applause on another well played acting job.

"Impressive," she heard a voice behind her say, simultaneously crystal clean and murky. "He never lets me get away with that," the voice continued, and by the time Santana turned around to put a face to the sound, the driver had slipped behind the well-tinted windows of a charcoal Mazda, and all she caught was a flash of blonde hair before the door slammed, and the voice slipped away with the screech of tires on the pavement.