“Kurt! Kurt!” Santana bellows his name from the hallway, before she even walks through the loft door. “Kurt! Get yo' ass out here so I can slap you into next week!”

Kurt walks calmly out from behind his privacy curtain, arms crossed over his chest, resting bitch face on point.

“Come again?” He glares at her, stormy blue eyes daring her to make good on her threat.

She stops short in front of him and raises a hand but she doesn't hit him. Instead, she stabs at his chest with a sharply manicured nail.

“You stole my Golden Egg!”

Kurt raises both brows, looking as annoyed as he does mildly amused.

“What in the hell are you talking about?”

“My Golden Egg!” she repeats with a growl, taking a step into a space that can't exist because Kurt is already occupying it, and he has no intention of backing down for her. “My Lush limited edition luxury bath bomb melt! Britt gave it to me in my Easter basket and I've been saving it for a special occasion, which was supposed to be tomorrow night when she comes back from M.I.T., except I looked on my shelf in the bathroom and it's gone.”

Kurt furrows his brow.

“Brittany gave you an Easter basket?”

“She gives me one every year,” Santana explains quickly, “but that's not the point. I've just spent I don't know how many hours on the subway, been to three different Lush stores, and everywhere is sold out. I ran out of patience thirty-two minutes ago when a drunk guy fell asleep on my shoulder and drooled down my cleavage. Now give it up!”

She thrusts an open hand out toward him, palm up, making an insistent grabby motion with her fingers. Kurt stares at her, mouth hanging open, not sure where to begin with this argument.

“Santana,” Kurt starts, raising a hand to his forehead and massaging his brow, “I did not use your Golden Egg. I don't even take baths anymore, not since that black gunk started coming up from the pipes.”

“Well, you're the only person who lives here who would have used it. Rachel wouldn't because it's not vegan and Blaine isn't tall enough to reach my shelf.”

Kurt sighs. He doesn't appreciate the jab at his fiancé's height, but he'd rather get rid of her now while she's all riled up and argue that point later.

“Let's think about this logically,” he says in a purposefully condescending tone. “Those things are basically cocoa butter and glitter, right?”

Santana already looks done with this conversation, single-mindedly determined to get her bath bomb back, even if that means grabbing Kurt by his twiggy waist and wringing it out of his body.

“Yeah, and…?”

“That means that if I used your precious bath bomb, I would be covered in head to toe glitter, right?” Kurt reasons. “The last time you used one, it didn't come off for three days.”

Santana rolls her eyes, looking unconvinced but also unsure.

“I don't know.” She shrugs. “Maybe you didn't get your face and hair wet.”

Kurt sighs. He unbuttons his shirt and slides it off his shoulders. He puts his arms out and spins in a circle for her inspection, revealing completely glitter-free skin.

Santana bobs her head left and right, privately debating.

“What about your legs?”

Kurt groans. He unbuttons his jeans and pulls them down to his knees, uncovering blue camo boxer briefs, but not a speck of glitter. Santana examines his skin closely, her nose an inch away from his junk as she moves down his thighs. Thwarted, she stands up straight and puts her hands on her hips, still determined to catch Kurt in a lie.

“Take it all off,” she commands.

Kurt laughs humorlessly, tugging up his pants. “Not on your life.” He buttons up his jeans and puts his shirt back on. “Face it. You lost it. You, you, you, and you have no one to blame but yourself.”

“Oh, I'll find someone to blame. It didn't just get up and walk away,” Santana argues. Her eyes light up. “Is hobbit around? Of course he is. You guys are attached at the frickin' hip.”

“I thought you said…”

“Bring your boy out here.” Santana blows by Kurt and heads for his room. “Maybe he did use it.” She cups a hand to her mouth. “Blaine! Get yo'…”

“If I remember correctly,” Kurt interrupts, managing to leap in front of her before she can shove his privacy curtain aside, “those bath bomb things smell like honey and toffee. Maybe rats ate it. You might want to start checking the corners and under the furniture for sparkly rat shit.”

Santana looks at him with disgust.

“Fine, you didn't take it,” she says, turning around on the ball of her foot and heading for the door. “But I still contend it's your fault that I have to find something else to do with Brittany tomorrow.”

“Why?” Kurt demands, offended. “What did I do?”

“I don't know, but I'm sure you did something.”

“May I suggest the old stand-by?” Kurt calls after her, following her a few steps to ensure that she actually does leave. “Whipped cream and handcuffs?”

“They broke,” Santana says with a smirk. “But don't worry your pretty head. I'll improvise.”

“You're forgiven, by the way,” Kurt says, watching Santana close the sliding door without a single word from her lips that sounded anything like sorry for barging in here, wrongfully accusing you, and threatening you with physical violence, but take her or leave her, that's Santana.

Sometimes, he really wants to leave her.

But now that she's gone, Kurt has other more important business to attend to. He steps back through his privacy curtain and stands at the foot of his bed. His arms cross again and the bitch face returns, though dialed down this time, because what he's looking at is too ridiculous for words.

That doesn't mean anything. Considering what he just went through with Santana, his fiancé isn't getting off any easier for being cute.

Kurt stares at Blaine, who's sitting on their bed wearing nothing but a pair of red briefs, his hair still damp from the shower, every inch of skin covered in gold glitter.

Kurt had seen him moments ago when he wasn't wearing the red briefs and yes, his entire body is covered.

Blaine gazes up through glittery lashes, meeting Kurt's stern glare and raised brow with wide hazel eyes, his lips pulled down at the corners in a small, guilty frown.

“Well?” Kurt asks when Blaine doesn't rush to explain.

Blaine takes a deep breath and swallows hard.

“I swear it was an accident.”