Rachel Berry won't bend, let alone break. Every day, she saunters into the studio with her head held high, wearing some kind of hideous getup that makes you wonder if she's colour-blind, desperate for attention, or taking fashion pointers from someone who secretly hates her. Either way, she only has to step foot inside your classroom and you feel like you're having an allergic reaction to her. She's a half-inch shy of being an honest-to-God midget and probably weighs all of 100lbs, but there isn't enough space in your studio to accommodate her gargantuan ego. Your skin starts to crawl whenever she's in your immediate vicinity (not that it stops you from invading her personal space, because you like toying with your prey before you devour it whole). Even the sound of her breathing is enough to set your teeth on edge. You've done everything in your power to convince her that she's a worthless waste of space; just another run-of-the-mill wannabe poised to crash and burn; but your efforts to undermine her never seem to have a lasting impact, even when she's practically gaping at you in terror. You're starting to think Barbra Streisand herself could tell Rachel she was destined for failure, and Rachel still wouldn't believe her.

Still, you've never been good at admitting defeat, so you continue trying to punch holes in her self-esteem, or at the very least stop it from inflating to obnoxious proportions. Your insults get more personal, your criticisms get more vicious, and you start revelling in the smallest of victories – Rachel evading eye contact in the wake of a cutting remark, faltering in the middle of a routine, looking meek and perplexed and (if you're lucky) even a little bit hurt. Still, it doesn't matter how many times you intentionally hold her back, the annoying little troll just won't give up the fight. She keeps on striving to improve, even while her classmates regard her contemptuously, and you've got to hand it to her - she's made of tougher stuff than you gave her credit for.

You still have fun playing with her, though. It doesn't matter if they're asexual, celibate or the Virgin Mary, when you let loose and strut your stuff, there isn't a person in the room – gay or straight – who doesn't get a little hot under the collar, and Rachel's no exception. The awed look on her face during 'Americano' tells you everything you need to know, but it's the way her hands are shaking when she helps you to stretch that really gives the game away. You catch her ogling your ass on more than one occasion, or casting a surreptitious glance at your abs, and she seems to be developing quite the crush on you. You chalk it up to Stockholm Syndrome, but you're still perversely flattered, even though you should probably be repulsed.

It's amusing at first, watching her blush and squirm and chew her bottom lip while you lecture her about the art of being sexy, but then she goes out of her way to try and prove to you that she's 'not that innocent' and you realise you can't even offend her prudish sensibilities anymore, because in that moment, you're as drawn to her as she is to you. In a last-ditch attempt to regain the upper hand, you resort to screwing the guy who's competing for her affections (you tell yourself that you're only sparing her the embarrassment of fawning over him, because he's bound to abandon her at the first sign of a better offer, anyway). You thought that would shut her up once and for all, that she wouldn't be able to withstand the humiliation, but then she comes back stronger than ever, playing you at your own game during 'All That Jazz.' You watch her gyrate against the barre and shimmy around the room, and you have no idea when she mastered the art of seduction.

You try not to think about how she's pushing you every bit as hard as you're pushing her, because now you're not just coasting through the day, refusing to get invested in anyone or anything; now you feel compelled to be at the top of your game. You can't afford to down a few shots at lunch time anymore, or turn up nursing a hangover; not when you might have to prove another point to your pint-sized nemesis, whether it comes in the form of a biting retort or a spur-of-the-moment dance-off. At the moment, you're winning the war, but that doesn't stop you from lying awake at night, dreaming up new ways to torment the girl who's rapidly becoming the most infuriating student you've ever had the misfortune of teaching. Dance 101 has suddenly become about so much more than just paying your rent and putting a bunch of delusional kids through their paces, and it's the most alive you've felt in years.

Rachel doesn't know that you're keeping tabs on her outside of the classroom, too. You loiter outside of the round room when she's participating in performance workshops, and you can see why Carmen bent the rules for her; why her perpetually stern expression softens around the edges when she talks about Rachel in the faculty lounge (even if it pisses you off no end). You usually only get in tune with your emotions after downing a bottle of Malibu, but Rachel has the kind of voice that forces you to feel something, like you're Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, going to see the Opera for the first time. You know that one day, she'll leave an entire audience slack-jawed with awe and sniffling into their handkerchiefs, and you hate her for it, because you were always just a good-time girl. You made people want to get up and dance, you made them want you, but you never had the ability to tug at their heart strings. Rachel's voice is so special, you don't even know why she feels compelled to try so hard in dance class, but you recognise that unrelenting determination to be the best at everything. You used to be afflicted with it, too... until you forced yourself to stop caring.

After she wins the Winter Showcase (which you refuse to attend, because there are only so many times you can watch her prove you wrong before you go bat-shit crazy with the sheer frustration of it all), she suddenly becomes everyone's favourite person, and you look on in amusement as she acquires an entourage of shallow, self-serving acolytes. They drop her off before lessons, and pick her up afterwards, singing her praises the whole time, and the sad thing is, she seems to think that they genuinely like her. Even though she's more insufferable than ever, there's a part of you that almost feels sorry for her, because you felt untouchable once, too. Sure enough, a few weeks later, Rachel's ascent to the top of NYADA's pecking order suffers a major setback when her roomie decides to teach her a lesson in humility. You quickly hear the hushed whispers about the events of Midnight Madness, and the next morning, Rachel turns up to your studio all alone, head hanging dejectedly.

"You shouldn't stay up past midnight, Schwimmer. You of all people need your beauty sleep," you taunt her, because it's practically second nature now.

She squares her shoulders and walks away from you, refusing to grace you with a response. She's good at taking the high road, but you're even better at dragging her back down to Earth. You leave her alone for as long as you can stand to, and then you sidle over to her.

"So I take it your little fan club's disbanded? You must have known it was only a matter of time before they moved on to bigger and better things, right?"

She purses her lips and avoids your gaze, so she doesn't see the sympathy lingering just below the surface.

"They're just busy this morning, that's all," she says quietly, but she isn't fooling anyone, least of all herself.

"Look, everyone wants to be your friend when you're riding the wave of success," you advise her softly, leaning close, "But most of them don't stick around for the long haul."

"And I assume you're speaking from experience?" she bites back, "Because you don't strike me as the type of person who has a lot of friends, Miss July."

And really, why do you even bother? You feel that familiar hostility bubbling up inside of you, and of course, it has to find an outlet.

"Didn't the guy who won your little sing-off last night go to the same high school as you?" you ask her, and Rachel already looks wary, like she knows where this is heading. She barely dips her head in acknowledgement, but it's all the encouragement you need.

"Then I guess you're not as good as you like to think you are, Schwimmer, because from where I'm standing, it sounds like he's the real deal and you just tagged along for the ride. You should be grateful he wasn't competing against you in the Showcase," you conclude, just to rub salt into the wound.

"Kurt would be the first person to tell you that I was considered to be the rising star of Glee Club. He had to content himself with living in my shadow."

"Well, maybe you peaked too early," you retort, and you relish the uncertainty that briefly flits across her features.

Eventually, though, you reach an impasse – after all, there are only so many insults you can come up with before they start sounding old, and you can see the looks the other students are giving you. They think this is some kind of embittered witch hunt, that you're actually jealous of this tiny little brat who came from the backwoods of nowhere. They'd probably even feel sorry for her, if they weren't secretly grateful that you're unleashing your wrath on her instead of them. You realise, then, that Little Miss David Schwimmer has somehow become the focal point of your attention, that you've made your lessons all about her, and that's probably exactly what she wants – to star in her very own melodrama, where she gets to play the innocent victim. Except there's nothing innocent about the way she rolls her eyes and smirks at you, or how she knows exactly what to say to drive you nuts. Rachel gives every bit as good as she gets, and somewhere along the line, while you were trying to claw your way through her composure, she wormed her way under your skin.

You seem to have developed a warped kind of affection for the student you've been treating like your own personal punching bag, because Rachel's ability to stay upbeat in the face of adversity - to believe in herself even when someone's repeatedly telling her she doesn't have what it takes - is something you never quite managed to master. It's enough to make you decide to act like an adult for a change, and you start interspersing your gibes with some constructive criticism. You even give her some positive reinforcement every once in a while - just enough to keep her wanting more, and you can see how much she's craving it when you deny her the attention you used to heap on her.

Then something changes. She turns up late to class, which is unheard of for her, and when you order her to sit out the first half of the lesson as penance, she almost looks relieved. She sits unobtrusively in the corner of the room, lost in her own little world, and it's almost like she's hoping you'll forget she's there. At first, you think she's just having a bad day, that she stayed up late studying and that's why she has dark circles under her eyes; why her complexion looks so sallow. When she re-joins the class, you can tell she isn't paying a blind bit of attention to what you're saying, and when you call her out on it, it's like she can't even hear you. There's no apology, no explanation, no comeback. Nothing.

You give her a day's grace, even though you hate it when your students lose focus, but when she turns up to class for a second time looking like the living dead, stumbling her way through another routine like she's in some kind of hypnotic trance, you can't tolerate it anymore. You snap your fingers in front of her face, abruptly drawing her out of her reverie.

"What's the matter, Schwimmer? Did your parents finally realise that they're wasting their money on a lost cause?"

You only say it to provoke a reaction, because you know she'll grit her teeth and dance her ass off just to spite you. Except she doesn't. Her posture becomes even more lax, and her lines are deplorable. It's the troubled look in her eyes that really worries you, though, and when she tries to evade your detection by moving to the back of the class instead of rushing to the front, you know something's seriously amiss.

You give her one last chance to redeem herself (which is frankly more than she deserves), but when she turns up to your next lesson in a similar state, you can't give her a free pass anymore. You wait until the class is over, and then you pull her aside. There's a reason why you haven't been allocated your own tutor group – pastoral care isn't really in your repertoire – but you want to know who's finally succeeded in taking the wind out of Rachel's sails. Who knows? Maybe they can give you pointers.

"OK, what the hell is wrong with you?" you demand unceremoniously, "Your face could curdle milk at the best of times, Schwimmer, but now it's downright offensive, and I'm sick of looking at your miserable mug. So come on, out with it. Are your parents getting a divorce? Did Brody dump you for a new and improved model? Did your roomie go running for the hills?"

Rachel ducks her head submissively, avoiding your gaze.

"I'm sorry, Miss July. I know I've been... distracted lately. I'll do my best to ensure it doesn't happen again."

You're disappointed by her mild-mannered response - you were expecting something more defiant - and you're not sure what to do with her now, or how to react to her deference.

"Yeah, well, you'd better pull your head out of your ass, Schwimmer, because if I don't see some signs of improvement, you can kiss goodbye to this class," you eventually tell her, in no uncertain terms.

She scuffs her ballet slipper against the wooden floor, and you almost feel bad for berating her. She clearly isn't going to open up to you (not that you can blame her - she'd have to be an idiot to confide in you after everything you've put her through), but you know there's a lot more that she isn't saying.

"Look, if you're worried about your boy-toy spending all those late nights with me, don't be," you assure her. "I'm not interested in your sloppy seconds, OK? It's purely professional."

She meets your eyes, then, and for a moment, you think she's going to say something (because she knows better than anyone that you don't know how to be professional), but she just bites her lip instead, and when the silence starts to feel uncomfortable, you finally give up.

"OK, Schwimmer, you're dismissed," you eventually concede, "But consider this your one and only warning. I don't give a crap what's going on in your personal life – and that's assuming you even have one – just don't bring it into my classroom, OK?"

She nods her understanding and, before you can stop yourself, you reach out to lay a hand on her forearm.

"But if you do need to talk about anything..." You contemplate the ridiculousness of adding 'you know where to find me,' and settle for saying, "You should go and see the Freshman Counsellor."

She stares at your hand like it's a figment of her imagination, and then she offers you a tight-lipped smile. "I'll bear that in mind. Thank you for your concern, Miss July."

There's a sardonic edge to her tone, and you're grateful that at least there's some fire left beneath this disconcerting fragility.

"So, what's the deal with your girlfriend?" you ask Brody later on that evening, when he's helping you to devise your lesson plans for the following week. He looks nonplussed, but at least he's not suspicious of your motives. Yet.

"What do you mean?" he asks you, and you wonder why the sight of him in a sweat-soaked A-shirt does absolutely nothing for you anymore.

"She just seems a little... subdued... in class, that's all."

"Then maybe you should cut her some slack," he retorts good-naturedly. He shrugs, looking thoughtful. "She seems fine to me. I mean, one of her old friends from school is staying with us at the moment and she can be a bit of a bitch, but Rach seems to be taking it all in her stride. Why? Do you think there's something wrong with her?"

He looks anxious, now, and you mentally kick yourself for getting involved.

"How am I supposed to know? I'm not an expert on the inner workings of Schwimmer's pea-sized brain," you snap, but then you can't help but add, "Maybe you should check in with her, though. Make sure she's all right?"

Brody squints at you, like he's waiting for the punchline. "Yeah... OK," he says slowly, and it looks like he's trying not to laugh. "I didn't realise you cared."

"I don't," you say flatly, abruptly turning away from him.

You can tell that he isn't covering for her. He's genuinely oblivious, so either Rachel's been pulling the wool over his eyes, or you're the root cause of her misery and she makes a miraculous recovery once she leaves your studio. You wonder if, against all odds, you've finally said something that's cut a little too close to home. Or maybe Brody's just too busy pumping up his pecs and preening himself in the mirror to notice the difference. It's not that you care, per se, it's just that Rachel was the only student who came close to keeping you on your toes, and now you're bored out of your mind again.

You don't eat lunch in the faculty lounge, even though Carmen frequently reprimands you for your anti-social tendencies. You can't stand the inane small talk, so you usually retire to your office, or pull up the piano stool in your studio and nibble at a fruit salad. Your cupboards were bare this morning, though, so you reluctantly head towards the student cafeteria, hoping they're serving something that isn't going to exceed your calorie count for the day. You cringe when you hear the raucous din emanating from the room, but when you push open the double-doors, it noticeably dies down. You know there's a difference between fear and respect, but you still revel in the fact that you can silence a room just by walking into it. Your eyes instinctively home in on Rachel, who's sitting a few feet away from you. She's with Brody, Kurt and some other guy you don't recognise, but they seem oblivious to the fact that she isn't really listening to their conversation. She has that same faraway look in her eyes, and her laughter comes a fraction too late to be genuine. You find yourself walking towards her, and try not to smirk when you see the way her eyes widen in response.

"All set for class tomorrow?" you ask her, and she nods curtly.

"Glad to hear it," you say, with a mischievous wink, and then you pluck a few fries off her plate, popping them into your mouth. "But you might want to consider going for the healthier option next time."

She glares at you, but there's a spark of amusement in her eyes, and you're glad that you've taken her mind off whatever was bothering her.

"You're gonna have to do better than that if you want to get back in my good graces, Schwimmer."

"I didn't think that was humanly possible," she retorts good-naturedly, "But please tell me what you have in mind, Miss July, because I think I'm going to pull my hamstring if I lift my leg any higher."

You can't help but snort in amusement, because you've missed this twisted camaraderie.

"I'm sure my TA would be happy to help you with your flexibility," you inform her drily, swallowing a completely inappropriate pang of jealousy.

Rachel doesn't even crack a smile – in fact, she looks a little green around the gills - and it makes you wonder if there's trouble in paradise.

"I take it you've... resolved... whatever issues you were having?" you ask her, and she nods resolutely. You see the way her posture stiffens, though, and wonder if it's still a sore spot.

You know there's no point in prying any further, so you turn your attention to the rest of the class, content in the knowledge that Rachel isn't a complete liability anymore.

"Miss July?"

Rachel catches your eye when you're next circling the room, and you walk over to her, making some slight adjustments to her stance. You pretend not to notice the way she stops breathing when your hands settle against her hips, just like you pretend not to notice the heat that settles low in your belly.

"What?" you demand impatiently.

"Would you mind if I stayed behind after class today?" she asks you hopefully, "I could use the extra practice."

"Well, you know what they say, Schwimmer," you note in amusement, "Admitting that you have a problem is the first step to recovery."

Rachel looks like she's fighting the compulsion to snipe, "Is that what they told you in your AA meetings?" but you're feeling charitable today, so you nod your assent.

"The janitor usually locks up around seven. Until then, it's all yours."

She smiles her gratitude, and you do your best to ignore her for the rest of the lesson, because you don't want to acknowledge how hard it's becoming to tear your eyes away from her.

When your students start filtering out of the room, you head back to your office to finish scribbling down an idea for a new routine, but you can't resist checking in on Rachel on your way out. You hover in the doorway undetected, watching her relentless quest for perfection as she practises the same movements over and over again. You see her legs trembling with the strain, and you realise that she's punishing herself to impress you. It makes your stomach twist with something that feels horribly like guilt.

"You should take a breather," you urge her, because it's clear she's pushing herself too hard to over-compensate for her earlier transgressions.

She startles at the sound of your voice, but then shakes her head determinedly.

"I'm fine."

"Schwimmer, sit your ass down, or I'll kick you out of here."

She looks at you like she's waiting for the other shoe to drop, like you're going to mock her if she shows the faintest sign of weakness, so you reach for your gym bag, tossing her a fresh bottle of mineral water.

"I'm all out of sippy cups today."

She gives you a small smile, and you have to turn away before you give in to the compulsion to smile back. She sinks onto the piano stool, supping her water, and you busy yourself with packing up the rest of your things.

It's pure luck that you happen to be heading towards the door when she stands back up again. You see her sway precariously and then pitch forwards, and you don't even stop to think, you just lunge towards her, somehow managing to break her fall. You sink gingerly onto the hardwood floor, bearing the brunt of her body weight as you cradle her in your arms, and your heart starts pounding violently when you realise that she's out cold.

"Rachel!" You manoeuvre her off your lap and onto her back, elevating her legs, and your fingertips are trembling when you reach out to check her pulse. It's strong – thank God - and you suck in a hitching breath when you realise that this isn't a matter of life or death. It occurs to you that you've always wanted to slap her across the face, and now you finally have the perfect excuse, but you opt to squeeze her hand instead, urgently calling her name again. It's only a matter of seconds before brown eyes are blinking up at you in confusion.

"What happened?" she asks, and you help her to sit up, taking in her dazed expression. You tilt her chin upwards, checking to make sure her eyes are focusing properly, and then you manage to muster a shaky smile.

"Apparently, being alone in a room with me was enough to make you swoon," you tease, and Rachel's circulation must be improving, because she blushes furiously.

She glances down at your entwined hands, and you realise that you're still stroking her knuckles with your thumb. You immediately pull away from her, clearing your throat.

"Have you ever fainted before?" you ask her, trying not to sound as worried as you feel.

She shakes her head, but you stop her from trying to clamber to her feet, resting a restraining hand on her shoulder.

"Just take it easy for a minute, OK? Tuck your knees under your chin and lean forward a little."

You can see that she's mortified, but for once, you have no intention of milking her discomfort. You move backwards, giving her some space, and she scrubs a hand over her face.

"Have you eaten anything since lunch time?" you ask her, wondering if her blood sugar levels are low.

"Yes," she says quietly, "I had a snack bar and some dried fruit about an hour ago."

You frown, regarding her critically.

"And what about now? Do you feel dizzy, or light-headed?"

You're aware that this is starting to sound like an interrogation, but you're still having palpitations and your skin's bathed in a cold sweat, and you're not going to let this go without an explanation.

"No," she says, but she's resolutely avoiding your gaze. You don't know if it's because she's embarrassed, or because she's lying.

You reach out, pressing your palm against her forehead, and laugh when she squirms away from your touch.

"Trust me, Schwimmer, I'm enjoying this about as much as you are, so how about you hold still for a second, OK?"

Her skin feels a little clammy, but she isn't running a temperature, and her colouring's good.

"OK, let's get you up."

You grip her elbow, hauling her into an upright position, and then hover by her side, just in case she decides to hit the deck like a sack of potatoes again. She seems steady on her feet, though, and she's looking at you like she can't quite believe you have the capacity to be this solicitous.

"Look, I'll drive you home tonight, but if this happens again, you need to get yourself checked out, OK?" You hesitate, re-considering your options. "In fact, maybe I should take you to the hospital now, just to be on the safe side."

"No!" she exclaims, a little too forcefully, but then she softens her tone. "I'm fine. Really. I must have just... overexerted myself, that's all."

"Schwimmer - "

"Cassie, please don't make a fuss," she pleads, and then she bites her lip, regarding you anxiously. You choose not to comment on the fact that she just called you by your given name, even though it speaks of a familiarity you're not entirely comfortable with.

"So I take it you don't want me to fetch you a damp washcloth, then?" you ask her wryly, and she finally cracks a smile, shaking her head.

"No, that won't be necessary, thank you."

There's a moment of strained silence, and then she regards you nervously.

"Did I..." she hesitates, laying a hand over her stomach, and you wonder if she's feeling sick, "Did I hit the floor hard?"

"No. Fortunately for you, I have good reflexes," you inform her with a wicked grin, and she looks like she wants the ground to swallow her whole again.

"Well... thank you... for taking care of me, but I'm just... I'm going to head home now, OK?"

She moves to collect her gym bag, hastily pulling on a sweater and some leggings, but you intercept her on her way to the door.

"Schwimmer - "

"Kurt's waiting for me in the Starbucks across the street," she hastens to reassure you, before you have chance to voice your objections, "So I won't be on my own."

You let out a resigned sigh, debating whether to force the issue and insist on driving her home yourself. You're not thrilled about the prospect of being in a confined space with her, but you're not going to rest easy until you know she's safe, either.

"OK," you eventually concede, "But you'd better not keel over on the subway, Schwimmer, because it'll be my ass on the line."

Her lips curl upwards in amusement. "You know, for a moment there, I actually thought it was me you were concerned about."

"Then maybe I should check you for head injuries, after all," you retort, but you can't help but smile at her, holding out your hand. "Give me your cell phone."

She regards you in confusion. "Why?"

You blow out an exasperated breath. "Just do it."

She fumbles around in her gym bag and obligingly hands it over. You try not to gag when you see her wallpaper (you still have no idea why she forgave Brody for sleeping with you), but you program in your number, handing it back to her.

"I want you to text me when you get home. And that's not optional, OK?"

She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling as she nods her understanding.

"Well... thank you again for being my Knight in Shining Armour," she murmurs, and you snort incredulously at her romanticism. "But I would... I would really appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone else about this."

"What, and pass up on a golden opportunity to humiliate you?" you ask, clutching at your chest as if the prospect physically pains you.

She laughs, then, and you think maybe she's starting to appreciate your warped sense of humour.

"Please?" she asks, and you waver for a moment, before tilting your head in acquiescence. She passed out on her own time, not on yours, and you could do without the extra paperwork.

She looks surprised by your response, but her eyes are brimming with gratitude, and you wink at her conspiratorially on the way out.

"Take care of yourself, Schwim."