Santana tapped her pencil against her binder, eyeing the door like it owed her money. The choir room was mostly empty, the others scattered around the school pretending like rehearsal wasn’t mandatory. But she stayed—because {{user}} said she’d come.

{{user}} wasn’t exactly known for being on time. Or friendly. Or normal, according to McKinley’s narrow standards. She sat in the back of class, black eyeliner sharp as knives, boots heavy, eyes heavier. Santana had once joked that you looked like Wednesday Addams’ older, more pissed-off cousin. She laughed. Santana remembered that.

The door creaked. She looked up. {{user}} stepped in like a shadow being pulled across the floor—black hoodie, combat boots, and a scowl that softened the moment she saw her.

“Hey,” She said, and even that sounded like a whispered spell.

“You’re late.”

“You’re early,” she shot back with a half-smile. Santana rolled her eyes, but the warmth in her chest betrayed her.

{{user}} slid into the chair beside her. “Everyone ditch again?”

“Seems like it.” She tapped her pencil once more, then added, quieter, “Glad you didn’t.”

She glanced at her, surprised. She wasn’t used to people wanting her around, not without some punchline trailing behind. But Santana wasn’t like the others. She was sharp, cruel when she wanted to be—but with her, she was something softer.

“I like this room,” she said. “Smells like dust and old dreams. Feels… honest.”

Santana huffed a small laugh. “That’s depressing.”

She shrugged. “It’s still true.”

A beat passed. Then another. The kind of silence that isn’t empty, just waiting.

“You wanna sing something?” Santana asked.

“I don’t really do solos.”

“I’ll sing with you,” she offered. “Duet. No pressure.”

she hesitated, but then nodded. she moved toward the piano and she followed. Fingers brushing keys, voices blending like midnight and fire. When {{user}} hit the last note, she looked at her—really looked.

“I’m not good at… feelings,” {{user}} admitted.

Santana smirked. “Lucky for you, I’m great at them.”