The new girl walks into the choir room like she owns the air.

Santana clocks her instantly: polished shoes, ribbon in her hair, smile like she’s never tasted anything bitter. The kind of girl who says “lovely” unironically. The kind of girl who probably sang Wicked duets in perfect harmony with her equally polished girlfriend at her all-girls boarding school in Connecticut or some shit.

She sits next to Rachel, which immediately triggers DEFCON 1 in the glee club. Trust issues still strong post-Jesse St. James.

Santana leans over to Kurt. “What’s her deal? She auditioning to be Rachel 2.0?”

Kurt shrugs, wary. “Transferred from Bellrose Academy. Said she wanted something… ‘grittier.’”

Santana scoffs. “This is Lima, Ohio. Not the West Side Story reboot.”

Turns out, her name’s {{user}}. She sings like a dream, perfect pitch and Broadway flair. The glee club warms up to her very slowly. Santana? Not at all.

Because {{user}} is all soft smiles and sparkly eyes and “You’re hilarious, Santana,” and it’s disarming. She talks about her old school like it was a musical wonderland full of supportive girls and not one single slushie. Santana’s brain breaks a little.

“You’re telling me no one ever threw you in a dumpster?” Santana asks one afternoon.

{{user}} tilts her head, confused. “Why would they? I was co-captain of the a cappella team and president of the LGBT Alliance.”

Santana stares. “That’s not real. You made that up.”

{{user}} just grins. “You’re cute when you’re skeptical.”

Santana’s heart short-circuits.

She is so screwed.