They didn’t mean for it to happen like this.

Rachel’s end-of-season party was supposed to be chill—some show tunes, a few mocktails, nothing dramatic. But of course, nothing was ever chill when Santana and Quinn were in the same room.

Especially not when {{user}} was in the room too.

{{user}} stood in the middle of the kitchen, holding a half-empty red cup, trying to pretend they didn’t notice the way both women were circling them like lions.

Quinn leaned against the counter, effortless in a soft pink sweater, her hair tucked behind one ear, eyes locked on them. “You’re seriously going to pretend you don’t remember our night in D.C.?” she said sweetly, but her voice had that dangerous edge.

Before they could answer, Santana appeared at their side, claiming the space like she was born in it. “Yeah, they remember,” she purred. “But I’m pretty sure last night left a more lasting impression.”

Quinn’s jaw tightened.

{{user}}’s heart raced. They weren’t trying to lead anyone on. It just… happened. Quinn was warmth, comfort, kisses that tasted like safety. Santana was fire and thunder, the kind of love that left bruises and begged for more.

“You can’t have them,” Quinn snapped.

Santana raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

{{user}} stepped between them, eyes flicking from Quinn’s soft vulnerability to Santana’s fierce confidence. “I’m not a prize to be won,” They said, trying to sound firm even though their knees were shaking.

Quinn’s voice softened. “I know. But I love you.”

Santana’s fingers brushed theirs. “So do I.”