February Fourteenth

A/N: Surprise. I wrote this a while back for fun and was gonna keep it to myself. It only feels fitting I post this on the 10th anniversary of Quinntana Sex Day. Comments are very appreciated. Enjoy!

.

.

.

.

.

It starts with a look. An appreciative one that sweeps down Santana's tight, crimson dress and signature designer pumps. It lingers on her self-proclaimed rambunctious twins. Then trails her feminine curves, deliberately pausing at her ass. Santana's ears are warm by the time Quinn's eyes connect back up to her own.

She swallows and brushes the look off. Tossing her dark hair over her shoulder. She leans back against the makeshift bar and takes a sip of the cheap champagne from the bartender. The alcohol fizzles down her throat and she exhales a sigh of relief. Through her peripheral, Quinn does the same and mirrors her stance.

They're talking and scanning the floor full of their former New Directions members and other middle-aged randos. Nothing they say is beyond the surface level of small talk and gossip. Some topics are safe, some wary, but none of them uncomfortable. Even though mentioning her bubbly ex-girlfriend dancing with Guppy Lips Ken Doll leaves a bitter taste in Santana's mouth. She's too busy avoiding Quinn's glazed eyes staring at her profile to agonize over what Brittany does anymore.

They clink their glasses and cheers to being the only flawless ones in this room full of love-sick fools. They get more alcohol into their system and suddenly Santana feels warm and chatty. It's a distraction from the sourness she gets from seeing Brittany on Sam's arm. It's also a lull from her existential crisis about being back in Lima so soon after dropping out of Louisville and uprooting her life to Bushwick.

Quinn's company is more welcomed than Santana likes to admit.

They alternate between haphazard swaying to disco hits, giggling at nothing at all, and playing with each other's jewelry. At one point, Santana removes her gaudy gold necklace and puts it around Quinn's neck instead. She leans in to sweep her friend's shoulder-length blonde hair over the accessory and catches a whiff of fruity vanilla. Santana gets an urge to press her nose into the source of the scent before she realizes how close their faces are. Quinn turns her head and they make eye contact. A dopey grin stretches across Quinn's pretty face. Santana's mesmerized for the briefest of moments. Then she leans back. Looks away to fix her bracelet which has slipped up her arm.

Then it happens again. Those conspicuous hazel eyes admire her for a moment longer than what's deemed a friendly appraisal. Santana's not a fool. She knows when she's on the receiving end of a heated look of arousal. She just didn't expect it to come from Quinn. Her oldest friend—and the first girl she's ever crushed on, if she's being honest.

The song ends and Finn and Rachel hijack the stage. Before Santana can comment about choir room flashbacks, Quinn's hand slips into hers and is pulling her toward the center of the dancefloor.

Santana doesn't protest. It feels nice. To feel like she belongs somewhere. With someone.

Inevitably, everyone pairs up for the Bob Seger number Finnocence and Berry chose. Tina's arms loop around Mike's neck, Sam curls an arm around Brittany's waist, and Kurt and Blaine stick together as if they've never broken up before. Even Artie rolls happily alongside Ms. Pillsbury's niece.

Being in such an intimate setting with Quinn should feel awkward, but it doesn't. Instead, Santana feels a jitter of nervousness when Quinn's body presses into her own and their arms wrap around each other. They sway to the romantic music and the entire time, Santana tries to remain as still as possible as Quinn takes the lead. Butterflies are rolling in Santana's stomach and she's afraid she might chase them away by breathing too loud. The alcohol. It's seeping into her veins and doing strange things.