I helped you paint your face, one half red, one yellow. I kissed you quickly, right on the apple of your cheek. You scrunched your nose, that cute smile that says don't ever stop kissing me. The hard acrylic paint cracked and left ragged lines down your face. Still as beautiful as ever, years after high school, years after college, months after the birth of our son. Don't worry; I won't ever stop kissing you. Promise me the same?

I wouldn't let you paint our boy's face; he can barely stand the wet heat of our kisses. But you put cute little lines under his eyes and snapped the buttons of his jersey. Number 12, just like his mama. I love seeing you this passionate, even about soccer. Your eyes sparkle, your hair glows, your nails tap, tap against the small swell of your stomach. Anticipation and excitement look beautiful on you.

"Ready?" you ask me, patting your pockets. "I got the tickets."

You've got one hand under Hayden's butt, as he rests on you hip, supporting him like you do me. I smiled at you and nodded. Opening the door, I followed you out, putting a kiss on the back of your neck, where course wisps of hair swirl and tickle.

"I'm so excited," you breathe, buckling the straps of Hayden's car seat.

"Me too," I say. Most to see you giggle in excitement, rush to the stadium in euphoria, bounce Hayden on your hip in bated anticipation.

We find our seats, and I pull Hayden onto my lap as you pull your flag out.

"Go Spain!" you cry, cutting the air with your flag. You lean forward and scan the field, despite the fact there is still half an hour until the game starts. I put a soft kiss on Hayden's head, where wisps of raven hair are growing. He reminds me so much of you Santana: strong cheeks, smile worth a million dollars. He is strong and brave like you. Curious and kind like me. The best parts of both us, the product of our love, our boy. I can see you painted up and waving a flag at his baseball games or dance recitals. His proud mommas.

Hayden falls asleep halfway through, despite the loud cheers of his mama. You amaze me with your passion, Santana.

I still don't know the difference between a touchdown and a homerun, but you try to teach me. Here at the stadium you point your finger, off sides, penalty kicks, striker. I love when you share your unbridled joy with me, shoot out, crossbar, foul. I listen, intent on learning, if only to see you smile at me when I get the rules right.

Hayden awakes when you scream goal. You turn and look at me sheepishly, before I laugh and hand you our son. You stand him up on your legs, clapping his hands, baby talking. Hayden wants Spain to win too. Don't you, my chicken. Go Spain! You nuzzle into his neck, and I know you smell the soft skin and baby shampoo that I always smell there. You are my family, Santana. You and Hayden.

When we arrive home and Hayden is fast asleep, you still have so much energy jumping around inside you. You kiss me hard, overjoyed at Spain's win and our adventure. I can feel the want you have for me, in the force of your lips, like you are trying to leave their mark. How I wish I could always feel your lips on mine. The soft force of your desire coils my stomach tight, tingles my legs, spreads heat over my body.

When you move inside me, I clench. I want to keep you there, forever, there in the deepest part of me. We move together and I will my body to become part of yours. Here when we are entangled and connected, we are truly us. Brittany and Santana, one, in the truest sense of the word.

Britt, baby. My name on your lips, the only lips I ever want to say my name. I'm over the edge, falling and weightless. Full and inundated with you and with us.