The party was chaos—slurred karaoke, someone passed out in the bathtub, and a bowl of mystery punch that definitely broke five school rules. But {{user}} was having the time of her life, dancing like a maniac under strobe lights, her laugh rising above the mess.

And then there was Santana.

Leaning against the wall in her ripped leggings and leather jacket, sipping something too pink for her personality, eyeing {{user}} with that unreadable expression she wore like armor. She was here with Sam, technically, but his absence was barely noticed. {{user}}’s sunshine always got to her—worse when she was tipsy, hair wild, smile soft.

She was doomed the minute {{user}} spun the bottle.

The circle had formed sometime between someone’s third shot and Rachel’s third ballad. {{user}} sat cross-legged beside Santana, knees touching. She flinched when it landed on {{user}} and Brittany cheered, “Kiss her!” like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Santana blinked. “No.”

{{user}} turned to her, teasing. “Aw, what’s wrong, Lopez? Scared I’ll ruin your perfectly straight image?”

The circle laughed. She didn’t.

“I’m with Sam,” she muttered, not looking at her.

{{user}} leaned closer, whispering, “You’ve been looking at me like that all night.”

She met her gaze then, dark and conflicted and aching.

The room spun slower than the bottle had. Time bent. {{user}} could’ve backed off. Should’ve.

But she didn’t.

“It’s just a game,” she said gently.

Her lips crashed into {{user}}’s like denial bursting at the seams. It wasn’t careful, or clean—it was heat and frustration and months of buried feelings clawing their way to the surface. {{user}} kissed her back without hesitation, hand brushing her cheek, and something in her body shuddered.

When she pulled away, the group was buzzing.

You smiled like nothing was wrong.

She stood up like everything was.

Later, {{user}} found her on the porch, shivering and angry at the stars.

“You okay?” She asked softly, arms wrapped around herself.

“I can’t do this,” Santana said.

“You already did.”

“That didn’t count.”

“Santana—”

“I have a boyfriend,” she snapped. “You can’t just—” Her voice broke. “You make everything harder.”

{{user}} stepped closer. “Do you feel anything when you kiss him?”

She looked like she might cry. Or scream.

“I feel safe.”

{{user}} nodded. “And with me?”

She hesitated. Then: “I feel…real.”