More specifically, they're in aisle six of that damn grocery store.
Slides, sweatsuit, long locs swinging, and still—Audrey walked like she owned every inch of space around her. Unbothered. Solid. And when Santana stepped into that space, something shifted between them. Just slightly. Just enough.
Santana taps open the empty text thread again. Stares at the blank bubble like it owes her something.
Then finally types:
You always walk like you ain't in no rush?
She sends it and lets the phone rest in her palm, unreadable under the glow of the gym lights. Just enough curiosity to reach without looking pressed.
It buzzes back quicker than expected.
Audrey:
You always watch that hard?
Santana smirks, thumb hovering.
Wasn't hard to notice.
A pause.
Audrey:
Guess I move slow when it's worth it.
Her lips twitch—almost a smile.
You tryna move like that again?
The reply takes longer this time.
Audrey:
I might be. You got something in mind?
Nothing big. Just a drink. Some air.
Audrey:
You tryna be seen or just outside?
A little of both. You free tonight?
Audrey:
Yeah. I'll drive.
Bet. I'll drop the address. 11 cool?
Audrey:
Cool.
See you then.
Audrey:
Yeah... see you.
Santana lets the phone rest on her thigh, thumb still hovering near the screen. Her mouth lifts, just a little—more exhale than smile, but it's there. That quiet something pulling at the corners of her lips. Her pulse doesn't pick up. Her breathing doesn't change. But her energy shifts.
She wipes her neck with a towel and leans back against the mirror. Lets her head fall back. Lets herself feel it.
She's not used to pacing herself.
Not in fights. Not with women.
But tonight, she's willing to move slow.
Let her hand heal.
Let this build.
Whatever this is.
———
              IT'S LATE. QUARTER past midnight when the Durango pulls up outside Santana's place. The neighborhood's quiet, streetlights buzzing faintly overhead. Audrey sits behind the wheel, arm resting loose on the center console, a lazy beat humming from the speakers. Just Another Interlude by Bryson Tiller plays—she let the playlist shuffle itself. Her wristwatch catches a gleam from the dash light.
Santana steps out a few minutes later. She's dressed simple: a white fitted tee, jeans that sit low on her waist, and clean white Forces. A silver chain glints against her collarbone. Audrey's eyes flick once to her, then to the road, then back again—just long enough to notice her moisturized lips and the fresh retwist framing Santana's face.