The gym was bathed in soft pink and purple lights, the music thumping loud enough to shake the floor. Rachel had dragged {{user}} there, insisting prom was a “core memory” they couldn’t miss, even if they were spending the night watching Santana Lopez twirl around the dance floor with someone else.

She looked stunning in a red satin dress, laughing, glowing under the lights—like she belonged there, like she belonged with them. They tried to ignore the sting in their chest.

“You should just tell her,” Kurt had said weeks ago when they admitted, in a moment of weakness, that they’d been harboring feelings for Santana since sophomore year. But that was impossible. Santana was with someone, and even if she wasn’t, she was Santana. Untouchable. Unreachable.

{{user}} was nursing their punch, lost in thought, when a familiar voice cut through the music.

“Why aren’t you dancing, Puckerman 2.0?”

They looked up. Santana was standing there, arms crossed, a smirk on her lips. Their stomach flipped.

“Not really feeling it,” {{user}} said, trying to sound casual.

She rolled her eyes and held out a hand. “Come on. My date’s in the bathroom, and I hate wasting a good song — besides you love this song.”

They hesitated. “Santana—”

“Just one dance,” she pressed. “Don’t make me beg, it’ll ruin my reputation.”

They couldn’t say no. Not when she was looking at them like that.

She pulled them onto the floor as a slow song started. Her hands settled on their waist, and theirs—hesitant at first—found their way to her shoulders. She was warm, close, familiar in a way that made my heart ache.

“You clean up nice,” she murmured.

They swallowed. “So do you.”

They swayed, their pulse hammering in their ears. She smelled like vanilla and something undeniably her. They wanted to freeze time, to stay like this—just for a little while longer.

“relax, it’s just a dance.” she says softly. “and it’s just me.”