Santana’s halfway through a Cheerios routine when she hears it: a perfectly timed slow clap.

“{{user}},” she mutters, spinning around.

There she is, leaning against the gym doors in that stupidly tailored blazer, tie loosened just enough to be infuriating. She’s not even trying to hide the smirk.

“Just thought I’d see what mediocrity looks like up close.”

Santana glares. “Don’t you have a castle to return to?”

“Technically, yes. But your cafeteria’s tater tots are unbeatable. And you’re… distracting.”

{{user}}’s eyes flicker down to Santana’s uniform and linger. Santana pretends not to blush.

The glee club groans when {{user}} shows up again at rehearsal.

“Do you even go here?” Artie asks.

“Nope,” {{user}} chirps, settling next to Santana like she belongs.

“She’s spying,” Rachel hisses.

“Please,” {{user}} yawns. “You think I need to spy to beat you? We’re falling apart anyway. Our alto section staged a walkout because I missed three rehearsals in a row.”

“You did what?” Santana whispers.

{{user}} shrugs. “What can I say? I’ve developed… new priorities.”

She says it like she’s not making Santana’s life a confusing, flirty hell.

Later, in the hallway, Santana pins her to a locker. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Princess.”