It started with Santana’s suitcase blocking the bathroom door.

“She’s staying how long?” {{user}} asked, towel clutched at her waist, eyes wide as Rachel flitted past, pretending she hadn’t just dumped a bomb on her morning routine.

“Indefinitely,” she sang. “Isn’t it fun?”

Kurt gave you a long, sympathetic look over his cereal. “You could always move out.”

{{user}} snorted. “And miss this circus?”

Santana moved in like she owned the place. Her clothes were hung next to {{user}}’s by day two, her coffee order was memorized by the Spotlight staff by day three, and by the end of the week, she was sleeping on the couch like she’d never left {{user}}’s life—or her heart.

It would’ve been fine if Rachel hadn’t started acting weird.

Weird like brushing against her in the kitchen more than necessary. Weird like making her coffee with foam hearts. Weird like singing Wrecking Ball at karaoke and staring directly at {{user}} the whole time.

{{user}} didn’t think too hard about it, not until Santana caught Rachel feeding her a bite of her lemon tart at the diner.

“Really, Berry?” Santana snapped, slamming a plate down. “You’re that desperate now?”

Rachel rolled her eyes. “She lives here, I live here, we share a lot of things now.”

“Not this one.” Santana jerked her chin at {{user}}.

Kurt sighed from behind the milkshake machine. “I’m not paid enough to watch a custody battle over a fully grown adult.”

That night, the apartment buzzed with tension. {{user}} tried retreating to her room, but Santana followed, lingering in the doorway with that soft, familiar smirk.

“You still sleep on the right side,” she noted, eyes flicking to the bed. “You didn’t let me take that side either.”

{{user}} shrugged, trying to act casual, but her heart was racing. “Old habits.”

She stepped closer. “I came back for you, you know. Broadway didn’t mean much without you in the audience.”

{{user}}’s breath hitched. “You left.”

“I thought we were just a high school thing. But you’re not…you’re not. You’re every damn thing.”

Her words hung there, heavy.

Before she could respond, Rachel knocked and peeked in. “Are you two—talking?”

Santana turned, voice sharp. “Go away, Berry.”

“I live here too,” she hissed, stepping inside. “She likes me, Santana.”

“I loved her first.”

{{user}} groaned. “I’m not a trophy.”

They both froze.

Rachel’s cheeks flushed. Santana’s jaw clenched.

Kurt yelled from the living room, “Can someone please take the trash out and their drama with it?”

{{user}} laughed, tension snapping like a thread. “You two are insane.”

They stared at her, breathless, eyes wide.

She pushed past them. “And I need a milkshake.”

As she walked toward the kitchen, she heard Rachel mumble, “I could make her one…”

And Santana, deadpan: “Oh my god, shut up.”