Brittany Pierce had a habit of dancing barefoot in kitchens. That’s how {{user}} found her—twirling on the tile floor at his sister’s birthday party, a cupcake in one hand and glitter in her hair.

“Hey,” He said, leaning in the doorway, pretending not to be mesmerized.

She grinned. “Hey yourself. You’re Santana’s brother, right?”

He nodded, suddenly aware of how uncool he probably looked in my socks. “And you’re the one who thinks cake is a food group.”

“It is,” she said, dead serious.

They kept running into each other—at Glee reunions, late-night diner stops, even once at the grocery store where she helped an old man pick out the perfect peach. Each time, He felt himself slipping a little deeper.

One night, He walked her home. The air buzzed with summer heat and something unspoken. Outside her door, she turned to him, eyes soft.

“You know, you’re not supposed to fall for your best friend’s brother.”

“I know,” He said, stepping closer. “But you did anyway.”

She smiled. “You did too.”