You knew Jesse St. James was trouble the moment he winked at you in the choir room. He was leaning back in a chair like it was his throne, chewing his gum with the cocky kind of rhythm that only guys who knew they were hot could pull off. You were new to McKinley, and the rumors about Vocal Adrenaline’s golden boy followed you like shadows in the hallways.

“He’s a player,” Quinn warned you. “Heartbreaker. Performer. Run.”

You didn’t.

He caught up with you after Glee rehearsal one afternoon, sliding in beside you at your locker like he belonged there. “Hey. You’re not like the other girls.”

You rolled your eyes. “That line seriously works?”

He grinned, all teeth and dimples. “It’s not a line if it’s true.”

The next few weeks were a whirlwind. Jesse had a way of making you feel like the only person in the world—hands on your waist during duets, his voice dropping when he said your name. He’d sneak you into the auditorium after hours, play piano with one hand and hold your hand with the other. You started to believe maybe the rumors were wrong.

Until you saw him by the lockers with another girl. And then another. Different hands, same smirk. When he caught your eye, he had the nerve to wave.

You didn’t cry. You weren’t going to give him that satisfaction.

That night, you skipped his texts. The next day in Glee Club, when Mr. Schue announced a duet assignment, Jesse stood beside you like nothing had happened.

“You ready, superstar?” he asked, cocking his head.