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Look, all she's saying is that it's a nice ass.

Nothing wrong with that.

And besides, what else is she supposed to look at while she's huffing and puffing her way through this spin class? There's her own hands, the person in front of her with the very nice ass, or there's some very obvious gawking at any of the other fine specimens in the room. Except there are no other asses worth checking out, so clearly God or Gaga or whoever is just smiling down on her today, just as She had in a class a couple of weeks ago when she first noticed Nice Ass.

She hates New York. It's cold and miserable basically all the time, it's never not tourist season, all the assholes in all her classes are desperate to give the impression they've lived their entire lives in the City, and tanning requires she fork over most of the pitiful allowance she gets from her father. What she wouldn't do for rooftop access and some actual sunshine.

But there are some perks. Like freshly toasted bagels from the place downstairs in her building, a public transport system that will take her drunk ass home at 4am, cute girls who like accompanying her drunk ass home at 4am, and pizza at any hour of the day.

There's a reason she's in a spin class at three in the afternoon between her Queer Cultures workshop and her evening Minority Representation in American Politics work group.

Once again she fails to catch Nice Ass's name or face, because the other woman is clearly a machine if she is able to get up and disappear before Santana can even haul her own ass off her bike.


Spin class is at 11am this time, on a completely different day of the week, but somehow Nice Ass is in front of her again.

She's slightly hung over, so that's less interesting to her than just letting her head hang between her shoulders and trying to pull as much air into her lungs as possible, but it's nice to have it there to look at when she's in seated flat position.

The class is really going miserably, and she's contemplating taking a week off from drinking when Nice Ass's phone starts bleating out some show tune, instantly killing even the small amount of pleasure she was getting from Nice Ass's existence, because, no. Just no.

And then Nice Ass speaks.

"Hello, Rachel Berry speaking, may I ask who's calling?"

Santana's toe clips are the only thing that keep her attached to the bike long enough to hear that Rachel would be glad to come in for a call-back, and it was an absolute delight getting to work with whoever was on the phone at the initial casting session.

That's all she catches before she's ducking behind a row of sweaty bike riders and out the door as quickly as her wobbly legs will carry her.


She doesn't go back to spin class for a month.

She gains five pounds. Fucking delicious carbs everywhere in this city.


There's no way of knowing which classes Rachel might be in, but her jeans are starting to get a little tight so she sucks it up, pun intended, and goes to a 9am class on a Monday. Rachel isn't there, but as she's shoving her clothes into a locker it occurs to her that this gym is for people who live in the building.

She starts going to one of the campus gyms.


"Did you know Rachel Berry was at NYU?"

It's Monday night, which means Dancing with The Stars and Keeping Up with the Kardashians with Brittany via Skype.

It's the only time of the week this semester that neither of them have some kind of class or workshop or whatever, so they make a point to keep it free for each other. Brittany's in California, with Mike and Tina, but this is what was best for the long term, and for now they have this and the occasional hook up dish session that turns into Skype sex. It's working for them, and that's all that matters.

"Yeah, of course. She lives in the same building as you."

"How do you even know that?" This is blowing her mind.

"She told me?" She didn't even know Brittany was talking to Rachel anymore. Santana knows she's losing the plot a little when Brittany is talking to her like she's a little slow.



Album launch for some shitty band a friend of a friend is in, and everyone here is NYU. It's getting kind of messy, but it's just after finals so that was to be expected. She wore pants for a reason.

She's standing at one of the high tables by the dance floor, doing shots with her date - a girl she met at her internship - as well as a girl she slept with for a while last year and her date. The date, the former fuck buddy's, not her own, is cute and she thinks she'll hand over her number later, and god for a city of millions the lady dating scene is gross and tiny. Seriously, she met someone from LA last year who knew Brittany.

It's too noisy to talk, so they're just watching people out on the dance floor. The music's rubbish, but there are a lot of dance program people here so they're getting a free show, and there is this one girl, right on the edge of the dance floor, who is just all up on some blonde chick like she's a stripper and the blonde is a pole. It's fucking hot, until she turns around to grind her ass back into the blonde and holy fuck, why does this keep happening to her?

Rachel Berry is not five feet away from her, going to town on some blonde who in another life could have been Quinn Fabray. Her head is about to explode when Rachel looks up and her face instantly shows recognition. Fuck.

Rachel tilts her head back, not breaking eye contact, and oh fuck, fuck fuck, Rachel has never met an audience she didn't like to play up to and this is not going to end well because Santana is drunk and horny and yeah, she bolts.


It's months later, and she's completely forgotten about Rachel's existence.

What she hasn't forgotten about is a party on Friday, in one of the other residence halls, to celebrate the first week warm enough that people can wear slutty costumes without getting frostbite.

She has a date, but she might also have a problem. A really gross problem.

"Listen, I'm pretty sure I have a yeast infection, and I have a date in two days, so I'm going to need to see a doctor, like, right now."

Right as she says this, louder than is probably necessary, she spies a tiny brunette walking in from the back of the student health center, dressed from head to toe in black, with a massive white cotton scarf wrapped around her neck.

There's eye contact, and the memory of that night at the club smacks her in the face. Her blush is so immediate, she's distantly concerned her head might explode from the pressure of all the blood racing through her veins.

As Rachel continues through to the exit, smothering a grin, Santana turns back to the woman behind the desk and redoubles her demand to see a doctor.

"Seriously, I'm pretty sure I am about to die right now. Do you want that on your hands?"


It's Friday night. She doesn't have an infection. Her costume is hot. Her date is hot.

Or was hot, but she seems to have disappeared, which Santana is not okay with, and is why she is now pushing through the crowd of people in the hallway, having come to the conclusion that she has been ditched.

That is so not okay.

She's stuck in a bottleneck at a bend in the hall, and as she edges around the corner she finds herself face to face with Rachel. Dressed in a cheerleader's uniform. One that looks suspiciously similar to the one Santana spent the better part of her high school years wandering the halls of McKinley wearing.

Holy mother of God.

"Hello, Santana," Rachel looks genuinely pleased to see her, all bright smile and intrusive body language. "It's nice to finally catch you in an appropriately social setting."

Nice to finally what now? This is not happening.

"Oh. Hey. Rachel," is her brilliant response, sounding as though she is having trouble even forming words.

"I'm surprised it took this long, honestly, but we seem to keep crossing paths at the most inopportune moments." Oh, shit, no. Santana forces herself to actually look Rachel in the face, and she can see the suppressed mirth in her eyes.

"Yeah, well. You know the city," is her brilliant response, and honestly someone needs to just shoot her in the face.

"Indeed, I do. Anyway," and at this Rachel reaches out and places a hand on Santana's arm, "if you're looking for Meghan, you're too late."

"What do you mean, too late?" Santana can feel her face pulling into a frown she has worn significantly less since she's escaped Ohio. Her eyes flick to where Rachel's hand is, back up to her face, then back to scanning the hallway.

"She left with her ex-girlfriend. Honestly, the dyke drama with those two." Rachel actually rolls her eyes, like she has any idea, and Santana has a sneaking suspicious she herself has exactly no idea. About so many things. "You're much better off avoiding that."

"Yeah… I guess."

"How are you enjoying New York, anyway? Is it everything you hoped it would be?"

"I don't- yeah, I mean. Yes. Well actually, no, but it's better than Ohio." Santana shrugs a little, watching Rachel watch her.

This is incredibly weird. Rachel is smiling at her like they're old friends rather than former high school acquaintances-slash-competition, but even more confusing is this look in her eyes, like she knows everything about Santana there is to know. Santana feels like that time her mom caught her googling lesbian porn in junior year of high school.

All of this is especially disconcerting because— "I didn't even know you were going to NYU." That's not what she was going to say, exactly, but it's close enough.

Rachel trails her hand down Santana's arm, cupping her fingers around her elbow.

"Santana, besides the fact that I talked too much and liked Broadway, did you know anything about me in high school?"

Okay, Rachel has a fair point.

Which doesn't really explain why Santana's response is to back the girl up against the wall and kiss her, complete with tongue, but she has a theory she'd like to disprove, like, immediately. She definitely isn't getting the result she had expected, which was more along the lines of a slap to the face. Instead Rachel just grips her arm tighter, her other hand resting on Santana's shoulder, her thumb rubbing small circles there.

Rachel is really good at this, so she's obviously had a bit of practice since the Finn Hudson Whirlpool Experience.

"Hold up, you're enjoying this way too much," Santana pauses to point out.

"I told you, you didn't know anything about me in high school. Imagine the fun we could have had." And with that Rachel slips from between Santana and the wall with an infuriating little smile, turning back to wave as she slips through the door and disappears into the crowd of drunken sophomores dressed as Power Rangers and Ninja Turtles.

Was Rachel Berry actually flirting with her? And doing an awesome job of it?


When she stumbles home at 4am and finds her roommate gone for the weekend, she absolutely does not sprawl across her covers, still dressed as Clarissa, of Explains It All fame, and touch herself to the thought of Rachel Fucking Berry.


She asks her roommate if she knows any Tisch people from the musical theater program in the building, and her head is doing that near-exploding thing when Jenny's first response is, "yeah, Rachel lives on four with a bunch of people from the music program. There are a couple up on eleven, too."

She was apparently the last person on the planet to know that she was sharing a building with Rachel.

She steps off the elevator on four and this floor is like stepping into another universe. There is noise - no, music - coming from every direction, and even though it seems to be from different rooms along the hallway they all seem to loosely be playing together. A very tall guy with no shirt on steps into of an open doorway, trumpet pressed to his lips, and leans against the door-jam as he continues to play.

He looks her up and down, and she kind of wants to laugh at how ridiculous this guy looks while he's playing a freaking trumpet of all things. Trumpet boy must read whatever look of amusement is currently on her face as an invitation, because he wraps up his part in whatever is going and gives her a smile.

"Hi, there."

Oh, Jesus, why her? But he may be able to help, so she smiles nicely and walked down the hall to where he's still lounging.

"Hi, there, yourself." She wants to gag, and she is so out of practice talking to guys like this.

"You new around here?" At this she decides she can go it alone if need be, and bursts out laughing.

"Yeah, something like that," she finally gets out. She expects trumpet boy to look mad, or hurt, but he's still just smiling down at her like everything was going exactly as planned. "Do you know where a Rachel Berry lives? I think she-," before she can even finish, trumpet boy's face shifts into amused annoyance.

"God dammit, what is it with that girl and all the pretty ones?" Trumpet boy chuckles and shakes his head.

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, honey. Try not to get too attached, is the only advice I have to offer. She's down the end in 428."

She really is in the twilight zone, if that guy was just implying that Rachel was some kind of player. But she thanks him anyway and heads in the direction he had indicated.


The whiteboard on 428's door is thoroughly confusing. Mostly because it's completely normal, but there is at least one message that is clearly from someone who dropped by for sex and good lord what universe has she stepped into where Rachel Berry has been getting more play than she has lately?

She knocks on the door, then considers knocking again because there is seriously a lot of noise still happening back down by the elevators, but the door swings open and then Rachel is instantly grinning at her so hard she already regrets everything that has led to this point, as far back as ever applying to NYU in the first place.

"This isn't a booty call," Santana blurts out.

Except that's a damn lie and they both know it.

Maybe in her mind, Santana had other intentions when she changed out of her sweats and ran some gloss over her lips. Maybe she had just wanted to talk to that complete stranger from the party who had kissed her like it was her job. Maybe she'll have a stroke and die in the next ten seconds, who knows.

Rachel steps back into her room, leaving the door open for Santana, and takes a seat on the only bed in there. Fuck. She's arranged all prim and proper, hands folded in her lap, but unlike in high school it looks completely natural, and it definitely suits her.

Santana closes the door behind her, the sound outside dropping away to almost nothing, and she is momentarily distracted by how Rachel had managed to score a single in only their sophomore year. She wanders around, taking in the room rather than looking at Rachel just sitting there like that.

The only light in the room is coming from a string of Christmas lights draped around the window. The curtain is pulled closed, but the glass behind it is open, letting in the night air.

"Did you know we were in the same spin class?"

"Yes," Rachel says, calm as anything.

"Why didn't you say hi?"

"Why didn't you?"

"I didn't know it was you."

"But you knew I was there. Just not that it was me."


Santana perches on the edge of Rachel's neatly arranged desk, rows of photos tacked to the wall behind her, full of faces she knows from New York, from Lima, observing this scene with a casual interest. If some of those faces were here in person, she doubts very much casual interest would be their reaction. Hysterical laughter, maybe.


"So," she blinks up at Santana, slowly and deliberately leaning back on her palms, "why didn't you say hi?"

"I don't know." That's also a fucking lie, and again they both know it.

Rachel stands up and steps over to where Santana is leaning, settles her bare feet on either side of Santana's flats.

She can't take it any more. "What the fuck happened to you," she snaps, the edge in her voice nothing to do with anything she felt towards Rachel in high school. "You're so-" Shit, she can't even say out loud what she's barely allowing herself to think.

Rachel Berry is seriously hot. Like, completely soaked through her underwear, nipples hard, barely able to stop herself from reaching out and touching… hot.

"Yeah. I am."

Yeah, she is. Fuck. Santana pushes off the desk, her whole body pressing into Rachel's. Their height difference isn't as dramatic as Santana would have thought, had she ever bothered to think about it. Instead, Rachel just nudges her with her hips, back onto the desk, and follows her down.

She goes to lean in, because fuck this, it's time to get her game on, but Rachel beats her to it, and presses her lips to Santana's. She barely has time to think that, yeah, that wasn't a fluke at the party, before Rachel's licking at her lips and Santana has no choice - no, really, nochoice, she's not in control of whatever this is and she's barely in control of her own reaction - but to let her in, swallowing a moan at the contact. Seriously, so fucking good at this.

Santana's hands have just been hanging at her side, and what even is she doing when she could betouching. She raises her hands, gets as far as her fingertips skirting the fabric of Rachel's shirt, before Rachel's pulling back just a bit, fingers curling around her own, pressing her hands into the edge of the desk and holding them there. "Stay," she says, looking up through her eyelashes like she's being coy or some shit. She's not.

Okay, then.

Rachel relaxes her grip, but hovers for a second, and Santana's fingers flex around the wood because she knows if she moves her hands this is over. She really wants to touch Rachel, obviously, but she can play Rachel's game and wait her turn. She thinks she's become more patient in the last couple of years; it's time to find out, because she does not want this ending without orgasms.

Rachel shifts closer, lets her hands settle next to Santana's on the desk. She leans back in, noses down Santana's jaw, kisses a path down Santana's neck. She nudges Santana's shirt aside, licking at her collar bone, then sinks her teeth in, just enough to leave a mark. Rachel pulls back to admire her handy work, and makes a pleased noise that goes straight to Santana's core.

The hands at her sides drift up to her hips, fingers slipping under the edge of her shirt. Santana's own teeth bite at her lip, trying not to give the entire game away with the moan that's creeping up the back of her throat. She's not a virgin, for god's sake, but her skin is thrumming, heat radiating out from where Rachel's palms are now curved around her waist, fingertips stroking in time with the wet kisses Rachel is slowly dotting back up her neck. She can wait, dammit. She can.

"Take off your shirt," Rachel says, before scraping her teeth over Santana's ear, then pulling back with a final lick.

Her fingers crack as they unclench around the desk's edge, and she lifts her shirt over her head. As she pulls her hair free and she's lowering her arms, she catches Rachel's eye, and the look there is— okay, if it wasn't so damn hot she'd probably describe it as deranged. She's pretty sure she's seen Rachel look at a trophy like this before.

Rachel grabs at the shirt still around Santana's wrists, twisting it around her own hand and using the material to pull Santana up from the desk. They both know she's not trapped, but the illusion is enough, that she's going along with it is enough. It will get Santana what she wants.

Rachel takes the few steps back to the bed, bringing Santana with her. Their height difference may not be dramatic, but it's still there, and Rachel arches up onto her toes to bring their lips together.

So she can't touch, but she can work with kissing. She's got her tongue stroking against Rachel's, her whole body sort of rocking into it, when Rachel's hands come up and sink into her hair, holding her closer. Her hands are sandwiched between their bodies, and she can work with that, too, dragging her knuckles up and trying to push Rachel's shirt out of the way. She's nearly got it - fuck, fuck, c'mon, fuck - when she's pushed back, dropping to sit at the edge of the bed, having not even noticed Rachel turning them around. Rachel straddles her lap, knees on either side of her hips and pressing into the mattress. This? She can definitely work with.

Rachel's hands slide over Santana's shoulders, holding herself in place but using it as an excuse to trail her fingertips up the curve of breast along the way. Her left hand doesn't settle though, continuing on and curling around Santana's neck. She hitches herself forward just a bit, mashing their breasts together, before tilting Santana's head back with a slight tug of the hair at the back of her neck. Rachel's a tiny little thing - laws of physics just do not apply to all that damn leg currently wrapped around her - and they're eye to eye, but it feels like Rachel is staring her down.

She's seen Rachel do sexy before. She remembers the Britney Spears outfit and the awesome makeover Kurt gave Rachel. All of that - and all of that was hot, even being Mayor of Closetville at the time hadn't stopped her from noticing - paled in comparison to this person before her now. New York, and college, and time away from the assholes that made most of Rachel's time in high school a completely shit experience, her own sorry self included - it has changed her. Not into a different person, but like, the best version of herself.

"Kiss me," Rachel says, and Santana's not good at taking orders, but if she wants to do it anyway, whatever. She slips her still-tangled hands up between them, up over Rachel's head and hooks the shirt around the back of her neck with a quirk of an eyebrow.

Santana leans forward, forcing Rachel to clutch at her to stay in place, and the grip of her knees tightens as their tongues meet again and again between sips at her lips that leave her panting. Rachel's nails start scratching at her neck, and she's pretty close to just flipping them over, stripping Rachel naked and pushing her into the mattress, because she's going to do something embarrassing, like start begging or cry from arousal, if things don't get a move on.

It must show in her kisses, how desperate she's starting to get, and the hand on her shoulder shifts, nails dragging down her skin, before flicking her bra clasp open like a pro. That move, one she had barely mastered out of high school, breaks her resolve and she gasps into Rachel's mouth.

Her bra is hanging from her frame, arms still caught in the shirt around Rachel's neck, and Rachel slips her hands under it, letting Santana hold her in place. Trusting her at least that far. Rachel thumbs at her nipple, already painful tight, and pushes into her, twisting them sideways and Santana is on her back, in Rachel Berry's twin bed, in a dorm room in New York City.

She can't help the chuckle that bubbles up in her. This is insane, and awesome, and she's pretty much going to fuck Rachel through the mattress when it's her turn. If she'll let her. Oh god, please, let her.

Rachel ducks out from under the shirt, sits up and pulls her own shirt over her head. No bra.

Santana can't stop her hands from lifting to reach out. Rachel intercepts them, holding them and biting at her lip, giving Santana one more assessing glance before she tugs the bra down her arms, pulls it and the shirt from around Santana's wrists.

Rachel's hands rest palms down on Santana's bare stomach, and she doesn't move, just lets the contact burn into Santana's skin. Santana lets her hands resume their path, fingertips skating along breasts before cupping her hands and dragging her palms across quickly hardening nipples. Rachel's fingers curl into her skin and her lip is caught between her teeth, hips rocking her forward into Santana's hands.

Rachel's straddling her hips, and the movement, Santana's totally embarrassed to realize, will probably be enough to get her off if Rachel keeps it up. She bucks up into Rachel, pushes her back off Santana's hips down to her thighs - and she's pleased as some well-spiked punch to see Rachel's eyes close at the friction - far enough that she can sit up.

"Can we," she nips at Rachel's bottom lip, "get naked now?"

Rachel's eyes flutter open, and she licks at the spot Santana just bit. She's going to make Santana say it. And it's probably fair; they aren't friends, Santana's been a royal bitch to Rachel since basically forever. This isn't the same girl whose hair Santana cut in first grade.


She doesn't really give a shit about what's fair, but she's willing to work a little for an orgasm - and fuck that bitch in freshman year who called her a pillow queen. Santana Lopez is a giver anda taker.

Rachel giggles, and for a moment she's that same girl in high school who would chase after Finn and Noah and Jesse and be so shocked when they'd let her catch them. Like anyone could ever actually want her. How had they all been so blind?

Still. There's just no way of getting out of a pair of jeans in a sexy manner, and there's no point pretending otherwise. But watching Rachel slip out of hers, all that leg - seriously, how are they so long when the girl is just such a midget? - revealed for her to just stare at, she forgets what she's doing until Rachel's snickering at her, and pushing Santana's hands from where they're just sitting at her waist, fly undone, like she can't remember how to undress herself.

Rachel tugs at the jeans until Santana lifts her hips, pulls the jeans off, taking her underwear, too - white cotton and transparent with wet stickiness, because honestly, she truly hadn't thought this would be happening - and tosses them who the fuck cares where.

Rachel nudges Santana's knees with her own, and she scoots back on the bed. Rachel follows, running her hands up Santana's legs, and they part like Rachel is Moses. It's only when Rachel pins her down, hip to hip, that she realizes Rachel is as naked as she is, skin pressed against her skin. Her eyes roll back in her head and the arch of her back, the curl of her toes, is all the doing of her body. Her brain is too busy humming with pleasure to be much help.

Her movements drag her up Rachel's stomach, their skin sticking when she settles back down. Rachel's hand curls around her wrist, but the other hand is holding her up and Santana takes the opening, hands coming up to grasp at Rachel's hair. She pulls, but Rachel resists, her eyes cutting into Santana's, long enough to make her point, before she sinks down and let's Santana kiss her.

She's totally got this, until she doesn't.

It's disorienting, how small Rachel is but how everywhere she is, too. Just, everywhere, with her hands and her mouth and her hips and legs and skin, all touching her and stroking her and kissing her.

Rachel's hand is cupped around her breast, other hand in her hair, slowly rocking her hips into Santana's. Her hands are on Rachel's back, and around the buzzing in her ears and the thought that she's just glad they at least got naked before she came in her pants, she realizes she can't tell who's wetter right now.

And, okay maybe she's a taker, but Rachel's definitely giving right now, her hand slipping down Santana's chest, fingers curled and nails scratching, down to her hip.

"Who would ever have thought," Rachel says, her mouth hovering by her ear. She doesn't finish the thought, just moves her hand lower, scratches through the strip of trimmed curls, and twists her wrist around. Rachel doesn't fuck about easing her into it, just pushes two fingers between soaked folds, right over her clit, and god, she doesn't give a fuck either, keening in relief.

Those fingers circle tightly around her clit, halting every so often just to press down, a sharp bite at her neck acting as a counter-point to the jolt. Her neck is going to be a hot mess tomorrow, but for now she feels like a piece of hot metal, twisting in a bright glow.

The soles of her feet flatten against the mattress, her knees bending and thighs burning from how far they're spread. The hand between her legs is setting the pace and Rachel's following it, the edge of her wrist pressing into her mound. Her breath is in Santana's ear, and when the smallest sound wrings out at the end of every thrust, slithering down Santana's spine, she's pretty much done for.

"Fuck me," she all but pants, because yeah, this is a race to the finish line, and she wants Rachel inside her as she crosses it.

She can't decide if she'll be winning or losing, but whatever, orgasm.

Rachel's fingers don't shift off the pace and the rhythm they're taking, and fuck, okay, she gets it. She gets it so hard, and the moan that surprises them both must tip Rachel off to the fact that with or without her, Santana's going to come because shegetsit.

"Here we go," Rachel says, like Santana needs her hand held through it, and maybe at this point she does, because the moment those fingers slip inside her there's no stopping it. Rachel's fingers curl over and over and each time it's just an avalanche pushing her down the edge she would have travelled with gravity alone, until she hits the bottom and every muscle in her body is wound so tightly she can't move, can't breathe, can't see or hear or think.

Everything comes rushing back, the tension fizzing away as every fiber lets go. Her neck and spine and toes all uncurl at once, and the weight of Rachel holds her to the mattress, even as her orgasm continues to pulse through her, random spasms of warm pleasure firing down her nerves.

It takes her a moment, because like the rest of it she's got no control over herself, but the slowing flex of Rachel's fingers, still tucked inside her, loosens her throat and her own bark of laughter forces her eyes open.

"Well that didn't suck," she thinks she says, and still can't quite catch her breath.

Rachel slips her fingers free, bringing them up to where her head is propped up on her hand. She isn't looking at Santana, seemingly mesmerized by the sticky glint of her fingers, which she takes both of in her mouth, eyes closed and lips puckered around the digits, before slowly pulling them free.

"No it didn't," Rachel says, trailing a wet finger down Santana's chest, giving her nipple a soft flick that sends a final clench of release through her.

Santana sits up, mirroring Rachel's pose. Rachel's hair is knotted on one side, and she can see scratch marks creeping over the top of her shoulder.

"Hi," she says, chewing her lip for a moment. "I don't think we've met. I'm Santana Lopez, I go to NYU, and I'm going to fuck your brains out in a moment."

She can see Rachel's confusion, but she offers her hand anyway. "Nice to meet you."

Rachel slips her hand into Santana's, letting Santana's fingers curl around her own. "Nice to meet you."


It's Friday morning, and this is better than prepping for midterms.

She shoves all her shit in her locker, but mostly she's just thinking about the bagel with an inch of cream cheese she's going to eat after this.

The class is mostly empty, and she's adjusting her bike, lifting the seat and tightening the toe clips, when the instructor tells them all to get ready. She shoves her water bottle into the holder with a shrug, and gets herself settled.

Seriously, this is how much midterms blow, she'd rather suffer through this torture.

The instructor is just running through the usual instructions when the door into the gym opens, and a tiny brunette in cycling pants and a white t-shirt comes rushing in with a tiny nod of apology.

She weaves her way up the aisle Santana is in, slipping past her even though the next bike over is free, and takes the one in front of Santana. She's quick in getting set up, and as the music starts up, Santana leans forward into the handlebars, shifting in her seat.

Rachel looks back over her shoulder as the instructor calls out the first direction, and then they're off.

She'd really rather suffer through this torture.