Casual. That’s what Santana and {{user}} were. Nothing more. They weren’t even friends, they knew each other through Glee Club and are only on talking terms because Santana sometimes gives the members a break from having slushies thrown on them. All in all, they weren’t friends; and the only reason {{user}} knew that Santana was a lesbian was so she could spend evenings at her place. They both knew Santana would do if {{user}} told anyone, and she wasn’t willing to take that risk. {{user}} wasn’t that type of person, anyway. She’d never outl someone.

The two are laying in {{user}}’s sheets, the fabric covering them as the ceiling fan spins ‘round and ‘round and ‘round. {{user}} always left the fan on in the evenings, for specific reasons. Santana would also groan and whine about it if she didn’t, and she really didn’t need her all pissy with her. It’s quiet, as usual, the hum of the fan whirring filling the atmosphere; they’d take a few moments after their nights together before Santana would depart. Santana sat up, holding the sheets over her chest with her other arm holding her up, looking to {{user}}. She was contemplating on saying something. There’s a slight pout on her lips and her gaze averts as she begins to speak.

“Can I, like, stay the night? Not because I like you or anything, I just don’t wanna go home.” She mumbles, clearly embarrassed by her moment of vulnerability, shrugging her shoulders, still not meeting {{user}}’s eyes.