All of the Brittany smell should be out of it by now, washed clean by her own detergent, blown out of the fibers by the dryer. But it’s not. It clings, stubborn and impossibly delicious, to the core of the shirt Santana holds to her nose, breathing in its warmth and color.

“Babe, what are you doing?”

“Just” - Santana shakes out the shirt in her hands and folds it into thirds - “checking to make sure it’s clean.”

“Duh,” says Brittany. “We just washed it.”

Brittany is super-fast at folding the laundry. Left-right-center, perfect sixths. Santana can’t help but think that’s how she’ll fold the laundry when they live together for real, not just here in her parents’ crappy Lima basement.

“Who’d do the laundry?” she asks, before she can think better of it.

“You mean…” Brittany folds another shirt and licks her lips before continuing, “in our house?”

Santana shrugs. Her cheeks are hot.

“Me,” offers Brittany. “Of course.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I want to, like, iron all your work shirts for you. When you walk into the office I want you to look super nice because I took time to get out all the wrinkles.” She sneaks behind Santana and pulls her hair back, exposing a patch of neck that she immediately covers in kisses.

“You want to do that for me?” whispers Santana, closing her eyes at the sensation of Brittany’s lips.

“I want to do everything for you,” answers Brittany.

Santana shivers. But she spins around to give Brittany a quick kiss, then reaches back into the dryer to extract a pair of pajama pants.

“Better start with these shirts, then,” she orders, shaking the pants out straight to cover her blush. 

(Prompted by Roch, who suggested that Brittana do laundry together.)