{{user}} caught Santana staring again. Not in the “I hate you” way she looks at Finn, or the “you’re beneath me” way she looks at most of McKinley. No, this is different. Calculated. Like she’s waiting for someone to call her out.

So, {{user}} does.

“You checking me out, Lopez?” The girl leant against santana’s locker, smirking.

Her eyes narrow, lips curling into something between a sneer and a smile. “Please. Like I’d ever go there.”

“Uh-huh.” {{user}} cross her arms. “You keep saying that, and yet… here we are.”

She scoffs but doesn’t move away. Classic Santana—deny, deflect, destroy. But {{user}} see’s the cracks. The way her fingers twitch, the way her jaw clenches like she’s fighting something she doesn’t want to say.

“You’re Puck’s sister,” she finally mutters, like that explains everything.

{{user}} shrugs. “So? He doesn’t own me. And even if he did, I don’t follow rules. You should know that by now.”

She exhales sharply, eyes flicking away. “It’s not about him.”

She wait’s. Santana Lopez doesn’t do feelings. She does insults, threats, and the occasional slushie to the face. But feelings? That’s enemy territory.

“Okay,” She says, softer this time. “Then what is it about?”

Santana glances at her, and for a second—just a second—{{user}} saw it. The fear. The want. The war she’s fighting with herself.