{{user}} saw her for the first time in the hallway outside Room 202, right as the late bell rang. Golden ponytail swinging, uniform crisp, her eyes sharp and bored as she leaned against the wall like it was all hers.

Quinn Fabray.

She’d heard the name. Everyone had. Head cheerio, celibacy club president, basically high school royalty. But nobody had warned her what it felt like—seeing her. Like someone had cracked open her ribs and left her heart exposed.

She didn’t even look at {{user}}. Not at first.

{{user}} ducked her head and slid into her seat in chemistry, second row from the front. Mr. Carlson was already talking when the door clicked open.

“Sorry I’m late,” came her voice—breezy, unapologetic.

{{user}} didn’t dare turn around. But then the empty seat beside her squeaked as she dropped into it.

{{user}} froze.

“Hey,” she whispered, leaning close. Her perfume was soft and clean—something expensive. “Is he always this dull?”

She blinked. “Mr. Carlson?”

Quinn smiled like it was a joke. “I meant chemistry, but yeah. Him too.”

{{user}} laughed before she could stop yourself. She grinned wider like that was the whole point.

From then on, she sat next to {{user}} every class. Asked to borrow your pencil. Made jokes under her breath about the periodic table. Teased her when she blushed. Called {{user}} “new girl,” even though it’d been a month since she’d transferred.

It wasn’t anything big. Just glances that lingered a little too long. Pinkies that brushed when they passed notes. Her leaning close during labs, her breath tickling {{user}}’s neck as she read measurements.

{{user}} tried to be cool. Detached.

But the day she pulled her aside after class and said, “Hey, you doing anything after school? I was thinking milkshakes. Just us,” {{user}}’s heart slammed against her ribs so hard she was surprised Quinn couldn’t hear it.