“B-blaine? Blaine Anderson?”

The voice comes from behind Blaine and Kurt as they stroll down Lexington Avenue. It creeps up on them at first, hesitant to be heard. But before the decision can be made by the young girl who said it to turn and run in the opposite direction, the two men turn, Blaine smiling brightly, quite used to this sort of thing by now.

“Yes?” Blaine says.

“Oh my God! It's you!” the teenaged girl in plaid skirt and reindeer sweater (reminiscent of a young Rachel Berry) giggles, all embarrassed red cheeks and bright, excited eyes. “It's really you!”

“Yup, it's me. It's really me,” Blaine says. “How can I help you?”

“I was just…well, I just wanted to say…I'm your biggest fan,” she gushes.

“Hardly,” Kurt jokes, good-natured, taken aback when the girl flashes him a half-second murderous glare.

“And I was hoping,” she continues, focusing on Blaine as if Kurt didn't exist, “can I have your autograph.”

“Of course. Anything for a fan.” Blaine pats down his pockets for a piece of paper and a pen. Kurt crosses his arms when Blaine looks at him, refusing to help. “I'm afraid that I don't have…”

“Oh, don't worry,” the girl says, reaching into the bag over her shoulder. Kurt's brow draws in, noticing without saying anything that the bag over her shoulder is almost identical to the one that Blaine used to carry in college. “I've got a pen, and something for you to sign.” She pulls out what appears to be the only thing in the bag – a large binder with stickers and glitter and little pieces of flair all over the cover.

No, not a binder. A scrapbook.

“Wow,” Blaine says, flattered when she hands him a scrapbook elaborate enough to rival even one of Kurt's masterpieces. But it's not just any scrapbook. It's a scrapbook all about him, the words Blaine Anderson, Broadway Superstar written across the front in gold glitter pen, and a framed picture of him from the close of his latest performance, Hedwig and the Angry Inch, front and center. He feels the weight of the book in his hands, examines its thickness, and chuckles a little self-consciously. “Is this…all about me?”

“Mm-hmm.” The girl nods, handing him a purple Sharpie. Blaine takes it, spinning it between his fingers.

“A purple one,” he says. “I haven't seen one of these before. Purple's my favorite color.”

“I know.” She turns to the front of the scrapbook and indicates an empty space on the inside cover, beside the program from that same Hedwig performance. “Write with love and kisses to my biggest fan in the whole wide universe” – She glares even more viciously at Kurt this time – “Scarlet Juniper.”

“Scarlet Juniper,” Blaine repeats, signing off the dedication, “that's a beautiful name.”

“Sounds like a stripper name,” Kurt mutters, but Scarlet is too enamored by her newest prize to care about sending Kurt anymore threatening glares.

Blaine looks at the binder in his hands – an entire scrapbook made by a total stranger and dedicated entirely to him – reluctant to turn it over without a look inside.

“Do you mind if I take a peek?” Blaine raises an eyebrow.

“No! Not at all!” she says, elated.

Kurt huddles beside his husband, ignoring the way the young girl frowns when he does. Blaine flips through the book, pages and pages of the usual souvenir fare – programs from Blaine's performances, pictures printed from the Internet, a screenshot of a tweet Scarlet had posted that Blaine's assistant had re-tweeted on his behalf, a few carefully preserved ticket stubs from some of his shows, a stage door selfie with him signing programs in the background. Blaine remembers the performance, but he doesn't recall meeting her. Then again, he signs hundreds of programs a night, meets hundreds of fans. But the further in he goes, the more unusual the items become – a Wrigley's gum wrapper in Blaine's favorite flavor, wrinkled like it had been balled up and then re-flattened to put in the book; a copy of his Dalton school photo, like the one Kurt had hanging in his locker all through high school; a laminated pink ombre rose, exactly like the rare variety his mother grows in her garden in Ohio; and the oddest item he's come upon yet…

“Is that, my red bowtie?” Mounted on a page beside an article entitled “The Demise of Dalton Academy” is, what looks like, one of Blaine's favorite good luck bowties, from when he spent half-a-year directing the Warblers at Dalton. It looks worse for the wear, blackened around the edges, parts of it frayed. Blaine looks at Kurt and Kurt looks back, mildly concerned. “But, I thought it was lost in the Dalton fire.”

Kurt bends and gives it a sniff.

“Oh my God! Blaine! It smells like soot.” Kurt looks at the girl, standing with her hands clasped behind her back, smiling at him smugly. “Where did you get this?”

“I'm not at liberty to reveal my sources,” she says, pulling the scrapbook protectively away and putting it back in her bag. “Thank you so much for the autograph, Mr. Anderson. I can't believe in a city of eight million people, I bumped into you!”

“Well, it had to happen eventually,” Blaine says. Kurt groans quietly at his husband's flirting.

She smiles at Blaine, staring at him, blocking their path until it becomes a bit uncomfortable.

“Well, we should get going,” Kurt says, looping his arm through Blaine's, an intentionally possessive display. She doesn't move, not acknowledging that Kurt had spoken.

“My husband's right,” Blaine says. “We really should get going.”

“Oh, okay,” Scarlet says. “I wouldn't want to take up too much of your Saturday.”

“That's very nice of you,” Blaine says.

“Besides, I'm sure we'll bump into one another again. And hey, next time you might even be alone.” She sighs and skips away, holding her bag to her hip, protecting it from potential scrapbook thieves.

“Okay,” Kurt says, after Scarlet has skipped out of earshot, “can you say psycho much?”

“Oh, come on, Kurt,” his husband teases. “So, she's a little enthusiastic.”

“A little enthusiastic?” Kurt scoffs. “Blaine, she had a scrapbook!”

“Now don't be judgmental.” Blaine holds Kurt's arm tight. “You have scrapbooks of me, too.”

“I'm your husband, and the scrapbooks didn't start until after we started dating.”

“There's stuff in your scrapbooks from before we were dating,” Blaine counters.

“That stuff's retroactive, and that's not the point. What about that bowtie? You have to admit, that was a little creepy.”

“Well, she probably got it off eBay,” Blaine reasons, “so in reality, the guy who dug it out of the rubble is the creepy one.”

“She was carrying all that around with her,” Kurt argues, hoping Blaine will come to his senses.

“On the off-chance she would bump into me,” Blaine explains. “I've had fans carry around programs hoping to bump into me. I don't think it's that odd.”

“On the off-chance she would bump into you, or has she been following you?” Kurt spins around, sure he'll catch the girl following them, but there's no one behind them.

“See,” Blaine says, the small sprig of paranoia that his husband embedded in his subconscious forcing him to take a peek, “she's not there.”

“Yeah” - Kurt‘s eyes dart across the street, to the roof of a nearby building, to a storefront on his left - “not that we can see.”

“What are you trying to say?” Blaine chuckles, tugging at Kurt's arm. “She's just another fan.”

“She's not a fan,” Kurt says, eyes still searching as they walk toward the subway. “That girl's got stalker written all over her.”