Ironically, they do get paired up as partners for a science project. Something with fruit flies. In class, as Mr. Delaney hands out the packets with requirements and grading rubrics, she turns to him, hair moving smoothly across her shoulders. "You don't have to worry," she says, matter-of-factly. "I'm very good at science." She purses her lips and goes back to looking straight ahead.

He opens and closes his mouth a couple times, but he can't think of anything to say.

When the bell rings, she puts a hand on his elbow before he can run out of class. "We should arrange meetings," she says, quickly, "You know, for the science project. Fruit flies are very short-lived and I can't have a B on my permanent record, because when I become famous, there are going to be little girls that look up to me as a role model and I could never let them down." He blinks. She cracks open a leather planner that looks thicker than a Russian novel (and those things are huge), pencil in hand. "Are Wednesdays at 5 good for you?"

He stammers. "I don't know."

She wrinkles her nose, eyes darting back down to the page. "It's important that we establish a full colony. That's what the objective is, and that's supposed to take at least 2 weeks. Let's say Wednesdays at 5." She beams. "There, I've penciled you in."

"But I don't—"

"Here's my card if you need to make any schedule changes," she says, holding a business card out at him. He reluctantly takes it. "Or you could just tell me at Glee." She briskly brushes past him for her next class. He stares at the card, turning it over. There's a gold star by her name, written in big, bold letters. Somehow, he's not surprised.

Quinn, unsurprisingly, is not happy. "She wants you to go over to her house?" she says with a toss of her hair, momentarily distracted from making out. "That freak."

He rolls his eyes. "Quinn, it's for a science project. Flies are involved."

It doesn't matter, Quinn's latched onto the idea now. She clambers off of him with a huff, stomping off into the kitchen with a breathy, "Ugh, whatever."

He stands, stares at the portrait of Jesus on her wall.

Their first science meeting together is awkward. She talks enough for the both of them but the flies are quiet and her dads aren't home and he's very uncomfortable. She carefully prods the fly larvae in the petri dish, jotting down appropriate notes on graph paper. Setting down her pencil, she turns to him with sharp eyes and injected perkiness, "What's your favorite musical?"

"Uh, what?"

She just smiles benignly. "Your favorite musical."

He scratches his head. "I don't know if I have one."

She hums, poking the fly larvae again. "I think they're doing really well," she says, brightly.

Good, he thinks, casting a glance at the dish. At least someone here is.

The next week, they work in her bedroom. She shows him the video camera and the tripod, chats idly about her MySpace for a couple of minutes ("My videos are really why I haven't had time to date. My career comes first.") . The room is lavender and decked out in girlishness, with plush toys and pastel colors everywhere. He thinks he might even have spied a leftover My Little Pony on top of her dresser.

He sits on the carpet. The beige carpet. It's the closest thing to masculine in the room.

She breaks out her laptop, showing him the Excel spreadsheet with the rates of recorded growth. The flies are beginning to hatch (do flies hatch?). He nods (he thinks that's what he should be doing). "I've done about half of the written part, and then all that's left are the graphs. But I like to do those by hand." He nods again. "Have you started?"

"What?"

"The lab report."

"Oh, uh, no."

"As someone with leadership qualities, Finn, I see potential for leadership in you. You just have to learn to exploit it."

"Exploit it. Myself?"

She purses her lips. "Professionally? Yes."

He licks his lips and she leans in for a second before shifting back. "Well," she says, clearing up her notes. "If you need help, you have my card."

He comes over after dinner the night before it's due. Her eyebrows raise when he tells her he hasn't started exactly. She sighs but they head to the study. She doesn't let him copy her work, but she hands him her notes and lounges on the chaise chair as he works. She answers his questions when he asks them and even though he's not as smart as she is, he knows a part of her won't let him fail because that somehow reflects back on her.

When he finally finishes, he jumps out of the chair, his joints popping as he finally stretches, and does a little dance. "It's done!" he chirps. "It's done, it's done, it's done, I did it, it's done!" He heads over to her, kneels to meet her eye level. "Thank you so much."

She smiles. "You're welcome." She looks up at him. He doesn't look away.

He exhales loudly. "You are…really pretty."

He leans in, cushions sinking beneath his weight. Her eyes dart down to his lips briefly and she licks hers.

"You know, you can kiss me if you want to." Rachel Berry is nothing if not straightforward.

His arms brace on either side of her and he leans in and she smells so good, her eyes close just as his nose gently nudges hers, his lips settling against hers. They're warm and taste just a little sweet, like lip gloss or something, and when he pulls away, her eyes are still closed for a moment. "Wow," she says.

"I should go," he says.

"No," she says. "Stay." She reaches for him this time, arms wrapping around his neck as she tips her head up to kiss him. She shimmies onto his lap as his tongue runs along her lip. Quinn wouldn't do this, Miss Queen of the Chastity Parade that she is. Finn's hers now, her prize to unwrap and enjoy. She tugs him down on top of her as she leans back and as he presses a kiss against her pulse point, she groans. Groaning is not a Rachel Berry characteristic.

He shakes her awake. She opens her eyes wearily. "Hey," he says. "Sorry. I just wanted to let you know I'm going home now." He presses his lips together.

"Sure," she mumbles, cheeks tinged pink.

"Thanks a lot," he says, holding the finished lab report in his hand, before darting out the door.

She stands, organizing her scattered notes before placing them neatly in her backpack for tomorrow. She casts a furtive glance at the door.

"In my life," she sings, "There's been no one like him anywhere. Anywhere, where he is, if he asked, I'd be his." She pauses, humming the bars to On My Own as she heads up to prepare for bed.