Thanksgiving wasn’t the most traditional affair in your shared dorm. No turkey in the oven, no relatives filling the room with laughter. Just you and Santana Lopez, perched on opposite ends of the couch like magnets that couldn’t decide whether to repel or attract. The relationship defied labels—too intense for friendship, yet too uncertain for romance. It was somewhere in the murky in-between, where teasing words carried a bite, and fleeting glances lingered just a little too long.

Santana had suggested the celebration, though “celebration” was a loose term. The room smelled faintly of takeout, and a small, pumpkin-scented candle flickered on the coffee table. She leaned back with that trademark smirk, her sharp eyes fixed on you, her presence as commanding as ever. For all her wit and bravado, there was something softer in the air tonight—something neither of them had the courage to name.