A/N: So, I am officially stuck with THA. I've hit that dreadful writer's block for the next chapter, and it's bugging me. I was hoping that by getting this oneshot out that it'll magically disappear, so fingers crossed for that!
Enjoy!
xXx
CeruleanBlues
Need You Now
Quinn Fabray hadn't been aware that it was quite so late in the evening until she heard her cellphone beep, and an incoming text message from Biff McIntosh flashed on the screen. It was a quick reminder to drop by the store for some tea and biscuits—because he was so pretentiously British like that, even though he grew up in Pennsylvania, on an apple orchard, no less—on her way back. She heaved a tired sigh and did her best to suppress the irritation creeping into her nerves, because if the idiot wanted his damn tea and biscuits, he could've just jolly well got them on his own. After all, he had a pair of hands and legs, didn't he?
Snapping her laptop shut, she slipped it into her tote bag, together with the stack of papers that she needed to mark before class the next morning, and headed out the darkened hallway of McKinley Junior High towards the faculty's parking lot. Her yellow VW Beetle was the only car left—every other normal person had long escaped by now—and as she unlocked the vehicle and slid in behind the wheel, she wondered how her life had spiraled into such boring monotony.
Of course, being a teacher meant that her days were as unpredictable as any, but as soon as the last bell rang and the kids filed out, she was faced with menial tasks of lesson planning and reading essays that ranged from being atrociously bad in grammar to hilariously entertaining in creative plots. Still, it was better than what Tina Cohen-Chang had to deal with in her math classes, so she reckoned she couldn't complain.
Traffic had thinned out, and the convenience store was only around the corner. She pulled up by the curb, not planning to take that long in there, but grabbed the basket anyway just in case. Might as well do a bit more grocery shopping while she was already there. Since tea and biscuits were apparently a priority, she made to secure those first. Variety wasn't the mart's strongest suit, however, and she couldn't find the label that Biff preferred on the shelves. Short of feigning forgetfulness, Quinn snatched a random box of English breakfast tea, not caring that she would have to deal with an entire night of grousing and grumbling for it. The biscuits were at least a little less complicated to navigate through, and then on a whim, she traipsed over to the freezers for a tub of Rocky Road ice cream.
"Glad to know your flavor of choice hasn't changed."
She froze on the spot, a sudden shiver running down her spine.
Denial instantly shot through her gut, her head refusing to believe the voice that she hadn't heard in ten years. Try as she might, she didn't think she could ever forget that soothing Southern drawl, or the way it could still ignite a maelstrom of emotions in the pit of her stomach and send heat whooshing up to her chest and down to the tips of her toes.
Almost reflexively, her fingers curled tighter around the plastic handle of the basket and her eyes fell shut in the sheer effort it took to keep her breathing in control. An image of him popped into her mind, his boyishly handsome face, full lips and shaggy blonde hair that could never stop spilling over his striking green orbs; of him in a red-and-white letterman jacket, caught halfway between a man and a boy, his trademark lopsided grin aimed her way.
"Quinn?"
The lump in her throat seemed to expand at the painfully familiar way in which he uttered her name—a mix of wonder and adoration—and tears prickled behind her closed lids.
A weight on her shoulder jolted her rudely back to the present, crashing like angry waves against the shore as she tore away from his touch, whirling around to face him for the first time in a decade.
"Sam."
Her delivery was shaky, the mere syllable nothing but an inaudible whisper, but he was really there and gazing at her in that special way that only he could, and the years rushed back into her with the force of a freight train.
Gone were the lingering evidence of adolescence. Standing before her was someone different; a mature and more roguish version of the guy she once knew. His floppy mop now sported a neat trim, his fringe a tiny coif that pointed up to the sky; the five o'clock shadow a masculine addition to his features. However, his eyes, though—the same ones as she remembered—beneath the sparkle on the surface, now possessed a slightly haunting quality that bothered her more than she liked.
"Hello."
She blinked. "How—what—how are you?"
That distinctly goofy smile made an appearance, one corner of his mouth lifted upwards. "I'm fine, thanks. And you?"
Quinn managed a nod. "I'm fine. What—what are you doing here? When did you get back?"
"A couple of months," he shrugged, jamming his hands into the front pockets of his denim jeans. "I didn't think you'd still be here."
"I teach at McKinley, actually," she told him, and for a second didn't understand why she did. "Junior High, of course. English."
He beamed at her, all pride and tenderness. "That's great! Look at you, Quinn Fabray; you look amazing," he gestured animatedly down at her academic get-up, though it was nothing but a simple white blouse, a floral skirt and a pair of red flats.
"Oh, come on, Sam—"
The ringing of her cellphone interrupted her mid-sentence, and when she hastily fished it out of her bag, saw that it was Biff calling, she gave Sam an apologetic grimace before scrambling to answer it.
"Where are you?" he demanded, clearly irked about something. His recent growth of impatience was becoming a major pain in her ass.
"I'm just leaving the store," she replied exasperatedly.
"Stop dallying."
He hung up without his usual parting quips, and she expelled another tired sigh, dreading the inevitable row that was bound to happen when she got home. Whatever the reason might be—it could range from something as ridiculous as her failure to place his mug back in the cupboard to his outrageous assumptions that her late hours was simply an excuse to cover up the fact that she was cheating on him—she definitely wasn't looking forward to it. Unfortunately, the longer she dragged the wait, the worse it would likely to get.
"I've got to go," she regretfully informed Sam.
The way he reached up to rub at the nape of his neck was a quirk she didn't think she'd miss, but watching him now, it sparked something dormant in her; one that she had kept so well-hidden, it surprised her how quickly he had unleashed it from the darkened depths.
"Of course."
Still, she stood there for a moment longer, staring at him, the grin that had disappeared during the call returning as she studied the conflicting emotions in his gaze. She reckoned they could probably spend the entire night just like that.
"It's really good to see you, Sam."
"You too, Quinn."
Turning on her heels, she made her way for the cashier, engaging in cordial conversation as the lady behind the counter rung up her purchases. She didn't look back once, too afraid that if she did and saw him again, she would be tempted not to leave at all.
Only when she drove off did she realize that she hadn't asked for Sam's number.
And only when she had her hand on the polished door handle to the posh penthouse apartment did she register the disappointment in her heart.
The morning after a blowup was always a civil affair. When the alarm went off to signal the day, Quinn reached over to shut the incessant blaring and felt a shift on the bed. From behind, a strong arm snaked around her waist, pulling her flushed against her fiancé's bare chest. He nuzzled the spot beneath her jaw, his scruff tickling her into giggles, stopping only when he started dropping kisses to her lips.
"Good morning," he crooned, trailing his tongue up the shell of her ear.
"Okay, okay," she gasped out, shoving at his shoulders. "No, we can't. Don't want to be late for work, and you have that important meeting, remember? Can't afford to miss that and risk upsetting the client now, can we?"
Biff groaned as he released her, slumping back down on the soft mattress, an arm draped over his eyes. Laughing, she tossed the duvet aside and swung her leg over to straddle his naked torso. She lifted his hand away, giving him a quick peck in the process.
"You know," she drawled, suggestively grounding her hips against his and receiving a satisfied moan in response. "If we took a shower together, we could both save some time."
He had her squealing seconds later when they simultaneously raced for the en suite, the previous night's quarrel conveniently forgotten.
Beth Corcoran was a diligent student, slightly on the nosy side with a curious ass that wouldn't quit, but now and again, she made for amusing company. Casually seated, both legs dangling over the arm of the chair, her gob ran a mile a minute, ranting about the latest gossip amongst the girls in her class, as Quinn patiently listened on with her fists beneath her chin.
"And then of course Marianne wouldn't just stand there and let Caitlyn have a go at her," the girl ranted on, hands flailing comically, as if to prove her point. "So she went right up to her face and basically told her off. I wouldn't go into details with you, Ms. Fabray, because you're a teacher and all that, and I don't want to get Marianne into trouble, but let's just say that it was nasty stuff. Caitlyn totally deserved it, though, didn't she? I mean—"
A polite knock on the door interrupted them just then. The seventh grader swiveled her head around, and when Quinn glanced up, she found the last person she had expected to see standing before her.
"Sam?"
He gave a sheepish wave, appearing rather awkward out in the hallway. "Hey, Q."
Beth turned back to face her, face lit up like a Christmas tree. "Q?" she mouthed.
Rolling her eyes, Quinn decided it was probably the best to start on the introductions before her favorite student took it upon herself to do so instead, and that wouldn't turn out so pretty. "Come in, Sam. This is Beth Corcoran; Beth, this is Sam Evans. We went to high school together."
"Pleased to meet you, Beth," he offered his hand to shake, practically encompassing the younger girl's one in his grasp. "Sam, I am, and I don't like green eggs and ham."
"Oh, wow, you have no game," Beth remarked with a smirk before averting her attention back to her English teacher. "So you guys used to date?"
Quinn didn't know which she was more stunned about; the fact that a twelve-year-old could identify the nature of their relationship or the fact that she was blasé enough to point it out without any disregard. The blush that tinged Sam's cheeks was positively adorable, and Quinn couldn't help feeling the need to chastise the kid for embarrassing him so.
"Well, I don't think—"
"Yeah," she jumped in to save him from the misery. "We did, actually; during our senior year." And with an arch of her eyebrow, she silently warned the girl to drop the subject. Beth failed to hide her grin. "What are you doing here, Sam? How'd you find me?"
"Well, you did mention that you were a teacher here…" he trailed off, uncertain on how to end his sentence. "I just—you know—I thought I could—Sorry, I didn't really think this through."
"Oh," Quinn whispered, clearing her throat.
Beth observed the exchange with rapt interest, bright eyes darting between the two adults. When the silence seemed to draw on without a single development, she figured she best leave them to it. Jumping to her feet, she hoisted her yellow backpack onto her shoulders and edged towards the door.
"Well, I think my mom's here to pick me up," she announced theatrically. "You folks have a good evening, then. I'll see you in class tomorrow, Ms. Fabray."
With that, Beth bounded out of the room, unable to contain her giddiness. She couldn't wait to tell Marianne all about it.
They ended up at a small café just a couple of blocks away from the school; her most favored spot to go to when she had the time. Biff hadn't liked the place at first and had found it rather quaint to the point of being in a third-world country, but she loved the worn-out furniture and the small fireplace at the corner. He would still accompany her there on occasion, however, he would rather avoid it if he could.
It wasn't crowded—hardly ever was, frankly—and exactly the reason why she always came back. After placing their orders of coffee and blueberry muffins, they found an ideal spot next to an antique bookshelf that held various toys and trinkets.
"This is cozy," Sam commented as he took a seat in a chesterfield settee and ran his fingers back and forth on the leather material. "How'd you come to know about this place?"
She pinched off a corner of her muffin and tossed it into her mouth, knowing that table manners didn't bother him as much as it did with Biff. Using it to her advantage, Quinn even indulged in some obnoxious chewing, relishing in the fact that she could without any judgment.
"Found it on the way home one day," she began to explain. "Was a long day in school—had to sub for Tina's class because she was away on urgent matters—and I still had about a ton of papers to grade. It was late and I made a wrong turn by accident, stumbled into this little snuggery, and everything else is history."
"History, eh?" he chuckled. "Looks like you really made something of yourself here in Lima."
"I just couldn't bear to leave." Sipping on her roasted brew, she quietly added. "I wasn't as brave as you, Sam."
"You didn't think I was brave, either."
She peered up at him over the rim of her mug. "I thought you were stupid enough."
"That you did," he teased good-naturedly.
A moment of nostalgic reminiscence passed before the mood sobered up.
"Why are you back here, Sam?" she asked, her tone wavering in an attempt to sound nonchalant as she set the cup down on the table and actively avoided his piercing gaze.
"I got bored of Europe," was his response, spoken so offhandedly, it was as though he was talking about the weather.
Quinn tilted her head, regarding him incredulously. "That quickly?"
"Ten years is enough, don't you think?"
"Enough for what?"
She was baiting him, now, waiting for his long overdue explanation. Schooling her features into one devoid of emotion, she straightened back to the prim woman she had coached herself to be when Biff waltzed into her life. He had to know that she wasn't that same naïve person she was back in high school, that she deserved so much more than what he had given her when he upped and left with nothing but a handwritten letter under her doorstep.
"To get over you."
"Sam—"
"But then I realized that's not possible," he grated out, staring intently down at his upturned palms. "How does one get over Quinn Fabray?"
"You chose to run away," she harshly reminded him, the wound, though it had recovered, still left scars that she couldn't erase.
"I was scared."
"How did you think I felt?" she retorted. "The first time I told someone I loved him and he disappeared off the face of the planet. When you didn't come back after five years, I thought for sure you were dead in a ditch somewhere until your sister called to tell me that you had found a job in Spain. I was practically on the next flight out, but then I decided that I couldn't put my life on a standstill all because you couldn't decide if I was worth it or not."
"Quinn—"
She shot to her feet, grabbing for her purse and slinging it over her shoulder.
"I'm engaged, Sam," she spat out venomously. "I'm getting married in four months. You're right; ten years is enough."
Biff noticed her off-kilter demeanor during supper. She had made his favorite chicken casserole in hopes that it would distract him enough; even fussed about his coat and briefcase, greeting him with a kiss so evocative, it left him reeling for a good couple of seconds.
"You're awfully quiet tonight," he observed as they sat at the dining table.
She scooped a fair helping of her cooking with her fork, quickly shoving it into her mouth so that she wouldn't have to answer him right away. Washing it down with a sip of expensive wine—he wouldn't settle for anything less than the best, after all—she finally met his inquisitive blue eyes.
"Had a long day in school, is all."
He wasn't as easily fooled as she made him to be. "You sure?"
"Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"
Very calmly, he set his utensils down and then ran his hand over his lips. "Because I'm pretty certain it was your car outside the café this afternoon. Who was that guy you were with?"
Her blood ran cold, the color draining from her face, the air trapped in her lungs and burning as she stopped breathing.
"Are you fucking him behind my back?"
Hazel eyes flashed at his absurd accusation, the offense taken. "I'm not cheating on you, Biff," she snapped.
"Who is he, then?"
"Nobody," she hissed. "He's nobody."
He didn't believe that, either.
Breakfast was thick with tension and forced decorum as they went about their routine mechanically, going through the motions only because it seemed innate in their muscles. She buttered Biff's toast and had a mug of coffee ready by the time he was dressed, the morning paper placed strategically atop his briefcase. He took a gulp of the hot beverage and winced as it scalded his tongue and throat.
"You working late again tonight?" she asked out of habit.
"I'm not sure yet," he said. "We're so close to securing that deal with Emerson and John's out of town—"
"I was just thinking that perhaps we can go out tonight," she suggested, managing a tiny smile when he turned to face her with a mixture of surprise and puzzlement, and for an instant, she reckoned he would turn her down. "It's been some time since we had dinner at a restaurant, you know, like a proper date."
He hesitated and seemed to be weighing her intentions.
"What's this about, Quinn?"
"Nothing," she huffed, slightly put off that he always needed to put reason behind her actions. "Can't we just have a night out like a regular couple once in a while?"
After a quiet beat, he nodded.
"Okay."
Teaching the last class of the day was a feat all on its own. The kids were antsy and restless, all eager for school to end, and frankly, Quinn couldn't blame them. Holding their attention was about as successful as the time she thought she was capable of beating Mike Chang at Mario Kart. When the bell finally rang, it was divine intervention, and before she could even finish her sentence, the classroom had emptied out.
She was busy shuffling the stacks of papers around when Tina poked her head in.
"Hello, stranger."
"Hey, Tee," Quinn grinned, ushering her in. "You excited for Mike's recital tonight?"
Tina placed her books down on the table and leaned against the edge. "Honestly, I'm just glad to have it over and done with so that I can have my boyfriend back again, and get some proper sleep without fearing that he might break a furniture or two when he choreographs at three in the freaking morning."
"Oh, please," the blonde snickered, giving her colleague a playful nudge. "You know you're proud of him."
"I am," Tina agreed with a nod. "But it'll be nice not to wake up to the sound of glass crashing for a while."
Quinn rolled her hazel eyes, gathering her stuff in her arms. "That'll be the day."
Together, they headed out of the room and down the crowded hallway.
"This is kind of not my business, but I heard something very interesting from Beth today," Tina said, trying and failing not to sound too intrigued. "She mentioned that Sam Evans dropped by yesterday to see you. Is that true?"
One of these days, Quinn would have to sit the girl down and mention to her about the importance of respecting other people's privacy. The last thing she needed was more gossip floating about amongst the students and faculty. That one incident six months ago still hadn't been properly extinguished; anymore to her name would border on scandalous. She was so tempted to lie, but Tina had been there for her through the hurt and pain, and it would just be an insult to their friendship.
"Yes," she sighed. "It's true."
"He's back from Europe now, is he?" Tina muttered flatly.
"Yes, he is."
"For real this time?"
Quinn hugged her binder and papers closer to her chest. "I don't know."
"You don't know?" Tina deadpanned. "What kind of rubbish catching-up was it?"
Clicking her tongue impatiently, Quinn blew out an agitated breath of air. "He ran because he was scared."
"What the hell does that mean?"
They paused at the door to her office.
"I don't know," Quinn admitted quietly. "I didn't—I left, I mean I couldn't just allow him to bulldoze back into my life and expect me to—"
"Hey," Tina cut her off, soothingly laying a hand on the other woman's arm. "Relax, Quinn; breathe. I'm not judging you. I just want to make sure you're being careful not to get your heart broken again."
Of all irrational emotions, Quinn didn't know why she was most confused. "I can't. I have a fiancé. We're getting married and Sam knows that."
"Oh?"
"What?"
"You told him, then." It was rhetorical.
"Of course I did."
Tina couldn't have been more impressed and pleased as punch at the moment. "Good for you, Quinn. Anyway, I should run. Don't want to be late for the show."
"Send Mike my regards," Quinn murmured, leaning in for a hug. "I'll see you tomorrow, Tee."
She entered her humble office, then, only to freeze a moment later when she noticed the obnoxious bouquet of flowers sitting right smack in the middle of her desk, practically filling up the entire space. A mixture of lilies, daisies and monte casino asters were immaculately arranged amongst the hues of greens. It was beautiful, but when her eyes zoomed in on a folded piece of yellow card sticking out, the letter 'Q' written with a black Sharpie, the pounding in her ribcage sped up.
Tentatively, with trembling fingers, she plucked it out, flipping it around to read the message on the back.
I was out of line the other day.
I'm sorry.
I'd like to meet the lucky guy worthy of your affections.
— Sam
There was a string of numbers right at the bottom.
Crumpling it up in her palm, Quinn tossed the ball of paper into the trash bin, but not before she had it memorized.
The French restaurant was too pompous for her liking, but if it'll keep Biff off her case, she was more than willing to play the perfect fiancée while pretending to understand exactly what the fuck she was reading on the menu. Didn't matter much, anyway, because he took the liberty of ordering on her behalf. She feared that he'd feed her something exotic, like cat liver or another, and was visibly relieved when a normal-looking salmon fillet was set in front of her ten minutes later. From across the table, Biff had already begun digging into his Magret de Canard—fancy duck breast, if anything—and was pairing his meal with a glass of red Bordeaux.
It was all very opulent and swanky; she had donned her special pearls after all.
"I'll be leaving for London tomorrow," Biff said stiffly before taking a sip of his wine. "John needs me there."
Quinn was unsure how she ought to feel about that. He had gone on business trips before, and she hadn't even batted an eyelash at the prospect, but things were currently shaky between them, and she feared his absence was only going to amplify their problems instead of solving them.
"How long will you be there?" she murmured.
"A week," he shrugged. "Maybe more, depending on how fast we can close the deal with those Brits."
Quinn only nodded.
There was nothing left to say.
Biff was already gone by the time she woke up. The penthouse seemed bigger and colder without a second occupant—empty—and Quinn didn't think she could spend her Saturday cooped up in a place that resembled an impersonal hotel suite. She spent the better half of the morning soaking in the bathtub and reading Little Women, and then retaliated by stuffing her face with some waffles and chocolate pancakes down at the all-breakfast diner downtown.
With nothing else on the agenda, she figured another round of mindless grocery shopping should help ease her boredom. There was just something about wandering down the aisles—the anonymity of being surrounded by others going about their chores—that relaxed her. At the risk of bumping into Sam again, she had chosen to patronize one of the bigger chain stores instead.
She grabbed a cart, already feeling lighter than she had been hours ago.
"We really should stop meeting like this."
Startled, she dropped the box of cereal in her hands and swiveled around, right into the arms of one Sam Evans. A gasp escaped her throat as he held her against his sturdy frame, the proximity catching her completely off guard, even when she marveled at how amazing it felt to be in his embrace once again. Inundated by his warmth, she whimpered as his clean, masculine scent evoked memories of nights spent in the throes of passion so vivid—both equally naked and writhing from unbridled pleasure—her knees nearly buckled beneath her at the rush of heat that pooled in her belly.
"Q?"
"Yes?" she whispered breathlessly.
His hands skimmed the swell of her hips and trailed dangerously low on the small of her back. "Not that this isn't nice—because it is—but eventually, I'll have to let you go," he chuckled softly.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, tearing herself away from his safe cocoon and self-consciously smoothing down the imaginary wrinkles on her sundress. "Sorry."
He did that uncanny quirk of ruffling his already semi-mussed blonde hair, a tint of red to his cheeks. "Don't be; it was my pleasure."
Quinn gnawed on her bottom lip, suddenly unsure about their recent development. Whether or not it was intentional, Sam had certainly just flirted with her; if the slightly sheepish smile was any indication, it seemed that he was very much aware of it too.
"I—I didn't expect to see you here."
"Why?" he scrunched his forehead in confusion, but it quickly faded into something cheeky. "Because I'm an anti-establishment activist hell-bent on boycotting chain stores?"
"That'll be the day," she snickered.
"I remember you being really fond of those hippie types," he smirked. "Remember Joe Hart?"
She burst out in laughter. "Teen Jesus?"
"With that giant spider on his head."
"And those sandals," she added, giggling.
He bumped her shoulder mirthfully. "Admit it, you had a bit of a crush on him; all that hair to tug."
"Don't even go there," she warned with faux seriousness. "It was one awkward kiss and he totally freaked out after that."
"He was mortified. I don't think I've ever seen a dude run so fast before."
"I have."
The abrupt de-escalation was akin to a slap to her face—and his—as he flinched guiltily at the harshness in her tone. Shifting uncomfortably on his feet, Sam cleared his throat in hopes of dispelling the tension, and she realized how ridiculous they must look in the middle of a supermarket with a forgotten box of cereal on the linoleum floor.
"Are you done with your groceries, then?"
Honestly, she still had about a few more items on her list, but traipsing along aisles of food had suddenly lost its appeal. "Yes, actually, I am," she gave in to the tiny part of her that nagged on that it was going to be a terrible idea. "What about you? Please don't tell me that you're actually being a creep in the supermarket."
"That was one time," he exclaimed defensively. "And if I recall, I was twenty bucks richer after that."
"That poor old lady almost called the cops on you," she reminded him with a disapproving shake of her head. "Noah Puckerman was an asshole. You should've listened to me."
He grinned lopsidedly. "Now where's the fun in that?"
"I'm not going to stand here and discuss morals with you, Sam Evans."
"What about over lunch, then?" he proposed, almost too aloofly to be but a passing comment. "We can go to Breadstix. It's just around the corner."
Quinn casted a furtive glance his way, knowing full well that she shouldn't accept his offer. She was engaged, for God's sake, and if her reaction to their earlier proximity hadn't rattled her nerves enough, this definitely would. Clearly, they had some unresolved, lingering emotions that bled into a more physical aspect—sexual—along with everything else that had been kept pent up in her for the past ten years. Having the power to choose was dangerous, more so when the prospect was so tempting. They could make it seem as innocent as possible, but she knew better.
"I—I can't."
His left eyebrow shot up. "Because of the fiancé?"
She hadn't expected him to be so blunt; that certainly had changed. "Yes, because of the fiancé, and also because it's never just about lunch with us, is it?"
"Why can't it be?"
"Because this is us, Sam," she said tightly, gesturing to the space between them. "We have all this history together that we can't just simply ignore and pretend it didn't exist."
"I'm not pretending," he gritted out heatedly. "I'm acknowledging the fact that you've moved on, and I was hoping that we could at least still be friends."
She scoffed something rude. "Friends?" she spat out. "You didn't even have the decency—as a friend—to call or keep in touch. You could've been dead for all I care and I would probably have found that out ten years later on the obituary page."
"Okay, can we not do this here?" Sam threw his hands up in the air. "If we're going to go off on a row, I'd rather we not do it in the middle of Ralphs."
"Right," she scowled. "Where do you propose we resume this then?"
"Lunch," he replied without missing a beat, that manipulative bastard. "Come on, Quinn. Let's go to Breadstix and settle this like mature adults."
She ought to be insulted, and partially, she was, but retaliating would only mean that he was right in insinuating that they were bickering like a pair of kids.
"Fine," she relented. "Let's go."
"Do you think they still fly them in frozen from some factory in the Dominican Republic?" he mused out loud, intently studying the breadstick in his hand.
She frowned from across the table. "I swear if you do that stupid Matthew McConaughey impression, I'm going to douse you with my hot coffee."
"Do you threaten that fiancé of yours like this?"
It was almost like putting on an armor, the way her bitchy eighteen-year-old self crept back in and conquered her polished demeanor, and she loathed it with a fierce passion. Damn Sam Evans and his ability to break down her carefully-erected barriers. Glaring daggers at him, she languidly chewed on the mouthful of spaghetti before swallowing it down with a sip of her steaming beverage.
"His name is Biff McIntosh," she informed him. "He works for an investment company."
"Impressive."
Her hazel eyes narrowed at the sarcasm detected in his tone. "Yeah, well, he's currently away for some business in London, so…"
"Does he treat you right?"
"You mean better than you did?" she shot back.
He sighed and carded his fingers through his disheveled hair. "Look, I'm sorry," he began. "I know that I shouldn't have left you like that. I was a right coward to go running to Europe without giving you the explanation you deserved, and you have every reason to still be furious at me, but I couldn't bear the thought of coming back and seeing that look on your face—that look that I never wanted to see aimed at me—and thinking that I've hurt you."
"So what changed?" she murmured. "Between leaving me and coming back, what changed?"
"Nothing. Nothing changed, and that was the fucking problem."
"Why?"
"Because no matter how far or how fast I ran, you caught up with me."
"Ten years too late."
He nodded. "Quite right, too."
She tossed and turned in a bed that was suddenly too big for just one person, trying her damnest to settled down as sleep eluded her. The ivory-colored sheets were tangled around her legs from where she had kicked them in her frustration. Though the room was cool with a temperature-controlled air-conditioning system that was more advanced than her laptop, Quinn couldn't seem to get comfortable.
Sitting up, she shoved the covers off, not bothered at all when it spilled over the edge of the bed and onto the carpeted floor. The small clock on the nightstand flashed fifteen to two, and she groaned at the restlessness that stubbornly refused to vacate from her being. With a grumble and a string of curses, she padded out of the room and into the kitchen, deciding that a good cup of hot chocolate was just the thing she needed.
Picture perfect memories scattered all around the floor
Reaching for the phone 'cause I can't fight it anymore
While waiting for the water to boil, she spied her phone on the counter next to a stack of unopened mail and snatched it up. There were several text messages from Biff about trivial matters in England—like how Chelsea was number one at the moment, the dreary rain, and how tea was so much better there—and one from Tina, reminding her of their brunch date later on.
She sent a quick reply to her friend, even though it was late and that she was most likely already asleep.
And I wonder if I ever cross your mind?
For me it happens all the time
Her thumbs hovered over the screen for a good minute, contemplating, and then, before Quinn could catch herself, she was tapping on a series of numbers that poured seamlessly from memory. Another minute passed just staring at it, until her thumb did the inevitable and hit 'call'.
Four rings were all it took.
"Hello?"
She swallowed hard, her throat parched and her hand quaking.
"Sam?"
It went deathly silent.
"You there?" she whispered.
It's a quarter after one, I'm all alone and I need you now
Said I wouldn't call but I've lost all control and I need you now
"Yeah."
Her knuckles were turning white from the sheer force of gripping onto the communicative device, and she ran her tongue over the top of her lips. Emotions were running rampant in her body, torn between two decisions that would ultimately determine her future directions in life. She squeezed her eyes shut, inhaling deeply through her nose.
"Sam?"
"Yeah?"
"Could you come over?"
A beat later.
"Please?"
And I don't know how I can do without
I just need you now
They shouldn't even be consuming alcohol, but it was easier to blame their poor judgment on inebriation than to accept the fact that she was about to cheat on her fiancé with the first love of her life. Shared glances spoke volumes where words couldn't. The slow drag became nothing but an unnecessary delay. Perhaps they were waiting for the other in a last attempt at backing away from making the biggest fuck-up ever. Or perhaps they were both waiting for the other to make the first move.
Quinn absentmindedly swirled the wine in her glass, already on her third one, and was visibly buzzed, and she reckoned she'd had enough of the tormenting silence. From her periphery, she noticed him jumping to his feet, probably to retrieve the bottle of Moët from the kitchen counter, and instinctively, her hand shot out to catch his wrist. Sparks jumped from the contact alone—the first proper one since he'd arrived at her doorstep—and the tingles that sprang in her core rocked her resolve in more ways than one. His striking green eyes snapped up to meet hers.
Slowly, she rose, setting the glass down on the coffee table.
Surging up on the tips of her toes, she inclined towards him, and without breaking her intense stare upon his handsome face, she slanted her mouth over his in a kiss that was too gentle and innocent for such a situation as theirs. She released an involuntary sigh; an ache that she couldn't seem to soothe now sung like gentle laps of ocean waves. It felt like home, a yearning finally answered.
His lips parted beneath hers, though tentative was no less ardent in nature. Long, calloused fingers slid into the tendrils of her hair, his thumbs caressing circles along the sides of her jaw. When his tongue ventured into the honeyed recesses within, she gasped in delight and sank into his strong arms. Pressed tightly to his front, she became highly aware of the straining bulge now tenting in his trousers and the fervent way that he was kissing her; as though he was a drowning man grasping onto the last fragments of air.
"Quinn," he murmured, brushing the tip of his nose against hers. "Oh God, how I've missed this."
She made a valiant effort to salvage the last vestiges of her crippled conscience. "We can't do this; you know that, don't you?"
"Yeah."
"We should stop."
He nodded, but otherwise refused to move away and instead, tugged her closer, groaning almost soundlessly when his crotch rubbed perfectly between her thighs. The delicious friction it ignited created in her such a hunger, she couldn't help but whimper with need. Surely he had to know what he did to her; how he had always managed to evoke such wanton desires without even trying.
"Yeah, we should."
"But do you want to?"
A growl broke from his throat when she leaned further into him, her hands wandering suggestively down the sides of his torso. "No," he grated out, yet breathing her in. "No, I don't want to."
She tilted her head up to look him in the eye. "What happens now, then?"
Shrugging his shoulders, he quietly replied, "I don't know."
"I have a fiancé."
He nodded gravely. "Yeah, you do."
"And I care deeply for Biff," she told him earnestly. "He was there for me."
"Do you love him?"
"Yeah, I do."
He grew rigid. "The same way you loved me?"
"What?" she spat out, wrenching herself out of his grasp as though she'd been burned. His accusation was a punch to her gut; that he believed so little in her—in them—to think that she would insult their love like that. "You don't get to fucking ask me that, alright?"
Flinching at her use of expletives, Sam turned away. "How were you expecting this night to end, Quinn?" he fumed. "That we were just going to have a shag and ignore it tomorrow?"
"I wasn't expecting anything," she shot back.
"That's bullshit and you know it," he hissed, his tone venomous and laced with years of hurt and pain. "If you thought for even a second that I'd come over here and fuck you without knowing how you feel about me, then ten years is a fucking joke, isn't it? I didn't come back to screw you over and then leave again."
"Why did you come back, then?"
His mouth clicked shut, the answer trapped between his fear and pride. She watched the struggle play upon his features, a dance of shadows and light; the hunch in his posture and the clench of his empty fists. After a couple of false starts, he eventually lifted his head to glance over at her.
"I love you, Quinn," he rasped out, his voice barely audible. "I knew I did the moment I was on that damn plane out of town, and then I became too much of a coward to accept it. Every time I had the urge to come back home, I ran even more, and then a day became a week, became a month, became ten years, but I still love you that first time you told me you did too."
She was trembling, unable to fathom how he could be so cruel. "That's not fair, Sam. It's been ten years."
"I know," he uttered, chuckling self-deprecatingly. "And I should've stayed away; should've walked right out of that store the moment I saw you. It took everything I had not to take you in my arms and kiss you that day. I needed to talk to you, needed to hear your voice—"
"Okay, you need to go," she sneered. "This is clearly a bad idea. I shouldn't have called you—"
"Why did you, then?"
She froze on the spot; his question—as harmless as it sounded—ringing in her ears as she struggled to form a coherent thought. It was all it took for him to cross the distance between them and stand before her once again. His warm palm drifted up to cup the side of her face, forcing her teary eyes up to his.
"Why, Q?"
"I—I couldn't sleep," she softly admitted. "And the first person I thought of, was you."
He traced his thumb over the fullness of her bottom lip. "Why didn't you call your fiancé?"
"Different time zone."
"Is that the real reason why?"
She frowned; disgruntled that he would put her in such a position. "You're going to make me say it, aren't you?"
Sam brought himself a step closer, the tips of their shoes bumping together. His sweet breath, tinged with the slight twang of red wine, fanned the strands of her hair as he muttered lowly. "I don't have to. You're going to do that all on your own."
The smugness in his tone punctured a hole in her resilience, bursting every once of control she had in her person. Yanking out of his hold, her hand flew up, striking him across his cheek. The sharp crack pierced through the air, echoing off the walls in punctuation to their quarrel. Speechless and stunned, he gaped right back at her with his jaw hung open. For all he had done, she hadn't once slapped him before. Her palm was stinging, almost numb from the pain, but it was nothing compared to the satisfaction she felt at the sight of her fingerprints upon his flesh.
"Does that answer your question?"
"Yes."
He surged forward, then, and in one sure movement, captured her lips in a searing kiss.
And then he was gone.
She didn't wake up till well past noon the next day, severely hungover, sluggish and her head throbbing like a fucking jack hammer. It hadn't been her smartest move to finish off the last of the Moët, but what the hell, at least it helped her sleep; eventually. Sitting up in bed, she couldn't believe she was about to spend the last of her weekend nursing her wounded emotions.
The world spun as she smacked her lips together, tasting the bitter bile rising from her throat on the tip of her tongue. Ripping the duvet off her, Quinn made a mad dash for the en suite. She dropped unceremoniously before the toilet and heaved what contents were left in her stomach. If she was being honest, it was rather nostalgic—she hadn't thrown up so much since she was twenty-one and partying her sorrows away—when time hadn't been kind to her.
After furiously cleaning her teeth, she stumbled into the shower, scrubbing at her skin until it was red and raw; and when the hot water ran out and she was left shivering under the cold spray, Quinn was too exhausted to move. The pounding in her skull had ceased some; she was more coherent now, and for that she was grateful. Perhaps what she really needed was a good dose of fresh air to sort her mangled thoughts out.
And some coffee.
With that in mind, she plucked a fluffy white terry cloth robe from the hook on the wall and donned it on before heading for the kitchen. Typically, she would despise the silence, but at the moment, she couldn't be more thankful that Biff had insisted on a penthouse. She fixed a mug and then plopped down on the sofa, switching the television on to catch up on the news. Midway into an account of a robbery that had occurred downtown, her cellphone began to buzz and the leather was vibrating beneath her. Groping around for a bit, she finally located the device wedged between the dip of the cushion and armrest.
It was a text message from Biff—amongst the several others that he had left since nine o'clock in the morning—and her heart skipped a beat when she read the first one.
Good morning, beautiful!
Can't wait to come back home. I miss you so much.
Love you!
A smile tugged at the corners of her lips because it was relatively rare for him to express such sentiments. Sure, he had lavished her with roses and chocolates, and occasionally a handbag or jewelry, but he wasn't big on verbal declarations of love. Especially with how shaky their relationship had been recently, hearing him say those words—and mean them—were practically non-existent. To be fair, she hadn't exactly been very generous with him either. It had been so difficult the first time she had managed to utter those syllables—the memory of her other first time still haunting her—Quinn was short of bolting out the door when she choked.
Biff's other text messages included a selfie of him standing in front of the London Eye, and if she'd like anything from Harrods, or perhaps something equally posh from Bond Street. An unladylike snort escaped her. He had to be obtuse to think that she'd have a clue on what the hell he was talking about. She hadn't been to Great Britain, didn't watch any of those daytime Tudor shows on network television, and most certainly wouldn't know what kind of biscuits she preferred with her tea.
Her reply was vague and generic—for his open interpretation any way he wanted to, and as an afterthought, added in a couple of well-intended emoticons in replacement to those eight letters. With any luck, he would be in a meeting and wouldn't be able to respond. Glancing at the time, she figured she had been cooped up long enough. She could use a good jog around the park.
Still slightly queasy—even with caffeine in her system—Quinn changed into a pair of shorts and tank top and pulled her hair into a high ponytail. After grabbing the essentials, she headed out.
Grotty and drenched in sweat, she collapsed down onto the leather couch, her limbs aching and lungs burning from the exertion. Popping the lid from her water bottle, she took a nice long drink. The afternoon sun had been merciless, and she was sure to burn the next day, but running had felt amazing.
It was just what she needed to keep Sam Evans off her mind.
She used the rest of the evening grading papers, pausing only to ruffle up some dinner and an umpteenth cup of coffee. When her eyelids started drooping and the last of the essays have been read, she glanced up at the clock on the wall and cursed the late hour. After straightening up her pile of work, Quinn padded over to the kitchen to place her empty mug in the automatic dishwasher. After ensuring that all the lights are switched off, she headed to the bedroom, completing her nightly routine before snuggling into the duvet.
Her cellphone chose that exact moment to ring.
One look at the caller and she sprang up so fast, she narrowly suffered a whiplash.
"Sam?" she answered cautiously, afraid of what to expect from the other end of the line.
Another shot of whiskey, can't stop looking at the door
Wishing you'd come sweeping in the way you did before
"I can't do this, Q," came his murmured reply, words slurring amidst the cacophony in the background, and she could bet that he was down at that pub he favored so much. "This thing between us, it's slowly driving me fucking insane. I—I need to see you tonight."
"Sam, you can't—"
"No, no I'm sick of it," he sputtered out. "I'm sick of you telling me what I can and can't do, alright? I know that you belong to someone else now, but Goddamn it, I still want you so much, it fucking hurts. I don't want to feel this way, anymore, Q. Just tell me that you don't love me; take me out of my misery."
"Sam, you're drunk and you're not thinking straight—"
"I'm coming over."
And I wonder if I ever cross your mind?
For me it happens all the time
He stumbled in, rumpled and disheveled, cheeks a brilliant shade of crimson, and barely able to stand on his own two feet. His lips shifted into a drowsy, lopsided grin when he saw her—unimpressed, with arms folded across her chest—and a spark returned into his green eyes for a split second before he registered her foul mood. Slamming the door shut, she marched over to his teetering form as he tried valiantly to stay upright and glared at him with all the power she possessed in her sleep-addled mind.
It's a quarter after one, I'm a little drunk and I need you now
Said I wouldn't call but I've lost all control and I need you now
"You're fucking wasted," she spat out.
He squinted hard at her face, and then placed both his hands on her shoulders for balance. The alcohol was strong on his breath; it wasn't apparent how much he had consumed. "I needed to see you," he mumbled. "You're so gorgeous, Q, so fucking gorgeous. I can't believe I ran from you."
"You need to go home, Sam."
"Please don't marry the bastard, Q," he pleaded, his forehead dropping to meet hers. "I can't—please don't—"
She pressed the flat of her palm against his chest, fingers trembling, and gave a push. "No, Sam—"
"You don't love him—"
"I do love him—"
He caught her wrists in his vice-like hold and hauled her against him. She gasped, trapped by the darkened look in his gaze and the way her body was deliciously molding with his. Memories from their sinful kisses barely a day ago came flooding back, igniting senses and nerve endings that had gone dormant in her fury.
"Say that again," he growled, his voice low and dangerous.
She met his stare head-on. "I love him."
"One more time, like you mean it."
His stubbornness infuriated her like no other; this man who could evoke such turmoil in her emotions, but she wasn't about to succumb to his wills. They had both done enough damage for a lifetime.
"I. Love. Him."
"If you're going to keep lying to me—"
"I'm not lying," she seethed, even when she made no attempts to escape his restraints. "And you need to leave now, Sam."
"So why are you still holding on, then?"
The double entendre wasn't lost to her.
She sprung away, as though she had just been burned, the parts of her that had been touching him still tingling on the surface of her skin, shivering involuntarily when the cool air hit where it was once warm with his heat. Something settled low in her belly—something she couldn't fathom—that sent her heart racing all over again.
And I don't know how I can do without
I just need you now
"Go."
Her voice quivered in that mere syllable.
Even in his inebriated state, he picked it up.
"Tell me you don't love me."
"It's been ten years, Sam—"
"Just say it!"
"I love you!"
Silence.
She stiffened as the words ricocheted in her ears.
"What?" he breathed, sounding oddly sober now.
"I—I don't—"
"What?"
"I can't—"
He advanced on her. "What?"
"Love. You."
His handsome face contorted into a menacing scowl. "That's not acceptable."
Quinn flinched as she backed into a wall that she hadn't even realized was behind. Undeterred, he continued advancing on her. She shrank under the intensity of his predatory gaze, feeling like a cornered animal. "What do you want me to say, Sam?"
"I want you to tell me the truth, Q."
Her tongue curled around words that she couldn't articulate.
"I'm confused," she whispered. "I don't know what to do. I don't know how to feel."
"Sleep with me."
The haze cleared instantly at his hoarse request, the nature at which he was asking her so much more crude than what she was used to with him, she failed to register it altogether. Caged between his arms, she had nowhere else to escape; forced to face him at such close proximity. It was unnerving because everywhere, her veins were humming.
"Sam—"
He tangled his fingers into her blonde tresses, his other hand trailing the side of her neck, his thumb rubbing circles at her pulse point. "Just this once. Please." His lips brushed fleetingly against hers as he pleaded.
"I need you."
Clothes were peeled with calculated precision, layers leisurely removed to savor every second as though it was their last, as sighs and whimpers ghosted over naked skin. There was no denying their momentary lapse in judgment now; they were keenly aware of their actions, but Quinn couldn't find any remnants of her self-restraint to pull away. His lips slid against hers with years of dexterity—the works of someone who knew her inside out—his tongue manipulating and stroking enough to render her knees useless.
They collapsed onto the bed in a heap of legs and limbs, the springs in the mattress squeaking beneath their weight, and the impact sent his still-encased erection pressing against the throbbing heat between her thighs. She straddled his tapered hips with a sigh, silently thanking the numerous deities that she didn't believe in. His name tumbled out of her mouth in a breathless prayer as he cupped the globes of her rear to stop her desperate wriggling for some semblance of relief. Marginally miffed that he would hinder such wonderful sensations, she rocked into him in retaliation, and marveled at the strangled sound that emanated from deep within his chest.
"Fuck, Quinn…"
Her nails dug into his shoulders, sure to leave angry crescent-shaped welts as she repeated the movement, grinding down onto his pelvis. Hissing, his eyes scrunched shut in an effort to contain himself, Sam stroked upwards, past the swell of her hips to the underside of her breasts, thumbs barely grazing her nipples. Wrecked by the sudden onslaught of potent desires, she pitched forward—subconsciously pushing her twin mounds further into his palms—and fused her mouth demandingly with his. Tongues swirled in a practiced tango, a dance still intimate in their memories, as he continued kneading her milky flesh.
"Shit, you have no idea how much I've missed this," he husked against the dip of her sternum. "How much I've dreamt of this ever since that day in the mart."
"You shouldn't be," she whimpered as his ministrations turned insistent.
He growled, knowing her words rang true, but still refusing to care. Determined to steer her towards his own lecherous train of thought, Sam gave an experimental pitch upwards, effectively distracting her when his bulging virility hit her right where she urgently wanted him to be; her whole body contracting in arousal.
"Need. You. Now," he rasped out.
His lustful eyes bore into hers with such unleashed carnality; it sent a delicious shiver rippling down her spine. A wave of desire crashed over her like a bucket of molten lava, and all of a sudden, the need to feel him full and pulsing inside of her became unbearable. Kissing him with a newfound ardency, Quinn paused only to lift her hips and yank the last bits of fabric down the length of her legs before carelessly kicking it aside.
A second later, she found herself flat on her back as he scrambled to rid himself of the last remaining barrier that cruelly kept them apart. His surging sex sprang free, standing tall and proud, and then it was as though she couldn't have him fast enough. His boxers were barely past his knees when she had her fingers closed around him, the unexpected touch pitching him forward, a thrust into her fist.
"Shit, Q," he hissed. "I don't think—I'm not going to last any longer if you keep doing that."
Boldly, she squeezed.
"Fuck…"
A skillful twist of her wrist sent him collapsing onto his elbows, and then he was prodding precariously at her entrance, the velvety tip of his manhood gliding up her slicked folds. Their simultaneous cries echoed off the walls, and she grappled for purchase on the wide expanse of his back as pleasure singed down into her core. His whole body strained, his muscles pulled taut, and she knew he was holding back for her benefit.
"Sam?" she prompted, lightly scratching a route up his sides.
"Yeah?"
"Go."
In one swift motion, he filled her completely.
The blissful intrusion had her gasping and him grunting into her shoulder, and for long moments, neither of them moved.
It felt like home.
She stirred awake in a pleasant buzz, a drowsy smile spreading across her face as she felt his fingers skate down the length of her spine, his touch feather-like and almost to the point of being ticklish. With a contented sigh, she rolled over and was greeted by the most endearing sight. Blonde hair in complete disarray and cheeks flushed brilliantly, his soft gaze fell adoringly on hers, eyes bright and more alive than she could ever remember.
"Hello," she grinned.
He stopped caressing her back to drop a chaste peck on the side of her shoulder, humming appreciatively as he took a pull of her scent. "Good morning."
Basking in the warmth of the sun streaming in and the afterglow of a really amazing night of immensely thorough shagging, she curled deeper into the duvet, feeling ridiculously happy. For a good full minute, all they did was stare stupidly at each other, bathing in the misplaced elation and wonderment.
The blaring of an alarm jolted them out of their reverie, and when she turned to shut it off, the digital numbers glaring back at her were like an ice-cold punch to her gut; a harsh reminder of what they had done. Guilt poured through her being, the horror in her actions deluging every cell in her body, and she froze, one hand still poised atop the clock. As if the infidelity didn't hit her hard enough, it occurred all of a sudden just what day it was.
"Shit!" she blurted out, scrambling out from under the covers. "I'm going to be late for work!"
"What?"
Swiftly, she gathered the strewn of clothing that littered the floor. "I have to get to school, you idiot," she hissed, carelessly tossing each article at him, not even apologetic when his boxers collided squarely with his face. "And you need to get out of here."
"Oh, so that's it, then?" he uttered bitterly as he tugged on his underwear with more force than necessary. "We're just going to do the 'last night was a mistake' routine and completely ignored that we had mind-blowing reacquainting sex?"
"I didn't say that," she spat out, feeling exposed and vulnerable just standing in her birthday suit. "I just have a job to get to, unlike you."
His full lips were pressed tight, his jaw set and his stormy eyes filled with hurt and betrayal. It seemed unfair that he would regard her with such scornful intents, considering she had responsibilities that he clearly didn't—responsibilities that she had spent ten years building without him—and with all due respect, she was still suffering the repercussions of his departure. No matter how inevitable their coupling was, it wasn't about to magically solve everything between them, and it definitely wasn't the best time to discuss such daunting matters.
"I do have a job, thank you very much," he informed her darkly, pulling on his jeans and shirt. "It's just too bad that I don't earn a five-digit salary every month."
"Sam—"
"No, Q, stop," he cut in sharply and jumped to his feet. "Don't fucking pretend that you actually believed the bullshit that it's only ever going to be just this once between us. You damn well knew better, didn't you?"
"You can't possibly—"
He marched up to her, seething, nose flaring. "Yes, I can," he bit out. "We're meant to be together, Quinn Fabray. And if you're still going to keep fooling yourself about what's going on between us, then you're just as fucking mental as I was ten years ago."
Guess I'd rather hurt than feel nothing at all
Brushing past her in a blur of flannel and denim, Quinn's legs remained glued to the spot even long after she heard the front door open and close.
She didn't hear from him in the days that came, and with a steel-like determination she didn't knew she possessed, had refrained herself from glancing at her cellphone unnecessarily. Immersing herself in her students and all the paperwork it entailed, she busied every waking second of her life that didn't include Sam Evans with menial tasks and boring chores, but when she went to bed alone at night, it was his name at the tip of her tongue instead of her fiancé's when she cried out to the heavens, her fingers slicked and slippery between her thighs.
When Biff returned from his business trip on Thursday, she had been a nervous wreck, wiping down every available surface in the apartment in hopes that he wouldn't suspect the treachery that had gone down while he was away. She had even gone to the supermarket to purchase three different air fresheners, strategically placing them at separate ends of the rooms, and had laundered the duvet twice. The lingerie she had on that unfaithful night—favorite or not—was conveniently thrown out, as were the sheets and pillowcases.
"Hi!" she exclaimed, flinging the door wide open to greet him; the cheerfulness in her voice sounded fake, even to her ears. Her cheeks hurt from the sheer magnitude of her grin, and when his baby blue eyes widened every so slightly, she grimaced internally.
"Hi, sweetheart," he crooned, crossing the threshold with his suitcase in tow to drop a long, lingering kiss to her lips. "God, it's good to be back. I've missed you."
"I've missed you too." She yielded to his embrace, strong and possessive, and she wondered if it had always felt so detached. "I've made supper."
He was delighted by the news—the epitome of every hungry man—his luggage conveniently forgotten in place of a hot home-cooked meal. Rubbing his palms together at the spread of food on the dining table, he didn't hesitate to plop his ass down on the chair and start scarfing down the spaghetti and meatballs. Quinn giggled at his boyish antics, finding his rare enthusiasm endearing, and in the soft glow of the lit-up candle as a centerpiece, she was reminded again of how incredibly handsome he was. Sharp and professional in his pressed suit and striped tie, he hadn't even bothered taking his jacket off before eating.
"How was your flight?" she asked conversationally, falling quickly back into the role of a doting significant other as she twirled the pasta around her fork.
"Long," he replied. "Still don't understand why John didn't book me a seat in first class."
"What seat did you get?"
"Business."
She tried not to roll her eyes; not able to comprehend the difference.
It wasn't until Biff was luring her into the en suite for a around of 'welcome back' sex in the shower and received a rude awakening when the telltale tingle of arousal wasn't present, did Quinn realize with startling clarity that any forms of initial attraction she used to have for her fiancé had vaporized the instant Sam Evans came swooping back into her life.
"Fuck!"
Pressed up against the cold tiles, Quinn had one leg wrapped around his waist, head thrown back as water sluiced down their intertwined bodies. His hands gripped her waist, holding her still as he plunged in and out of her heat, the sound of his grunts in tandem with the wet slapping noises of skin on skin. She clung on the only way she knew how and fought to revoke what she once felt for him.
"I've missed this," he groaned into the juncture of her neck, nibbling on the spot beneath her ear. "You. I've missed you so, so much."
Quinn swallowed hard, lubricating the sandpaper in her throat, the words unwilling to part.
"Yeah," she replied hoarsely. "Me too."
Her cellphone went off a week later while she was busy reading a student's essay, a number that she hadn't seen in a long time flashing on the screen, and without hesitating, she reached over to answer it.
"Hello, Stace?"
"Quinn…"
There was a significant pause.
Three seconds turned into five, turned into ten, and the nagging suspicion at the back of her head became the gnawing black hole of anxiety.
"What is it, Stacey?" she urged.
"It's Sam."
The numbness that overcame her entire being was a shock to her system; his name—one that she hadn't heard being spoken out loud since the morning—acting as an electrical bolt to her heart.
"What is it? What's wrong with him?"
"He's gone," the younger woman informed her shakily. "He left this morning."
Her fingers curled tighter around the device. "Where did he go?"
"I—I don't know," Stacey replied, torn beyond belief that her brother would leave again. "He didn't say anything, didn't leave a message; he just cleared his stuff and—"
A knock on the door stole Quinn's attention, and she glanced up to find Tina crossing the room, a concerned expression on her otherwise composed features. She could only imagine what her own face must look like to garner such a reaction from her best friend.
"Are you okay?" she mouthed out.
"Sam's gone."
Nothing was getting done. The words written on the pages were but jumbled pieces of a puzzle that only got more indecipherable as the hours grew later, and when the sky had gotten dark, she was reluctant to return home and face a fiancé who had been watching her like a hawk for days. Every inflection was immediately questioned, every weird behavior scrutinized under a microscope, that it was beginning to make her wonder if he knew of her prior involvement with a certain ex-boyfriend. Biff certainly knew enough about the unresolved issues between her and Sam to raise certain levels of doubt in her honesty.
Quinn knew she ought to be insulted; he didn't trust her.
For good reason.
The guilt ate her up every passing second that she lied to him, for every pleasure that she faked in bed with him, for every time she failed to return his love.
It's a quarter after one, I'm all alone and I need you now
And I said I wouldn't call but I'm a little drunk and I need you now
Heaving a sigh, she started to shut down her laptop and pack up, remembering to switch off the lights before dragging herself down the empty hallways, waving to the janitor as she passed by him mopping the floor, and heading for the parking lot on autopilot. The keys jingled as she absentmindedly tossed it between her hands, the thought of one missing person the only thing occupying her mind.
And then she stopped short.
There he stood—Sam Evans—in all his existence, next to her car, a backpack by his feet.
Her breath hitched, stunned and rooted to the ground.
"Quinn…"
So she ran, unshed tears clouding her vision, but she saw him crystal clear. His strong arms opened up to receive her, caught her as she crashed into him, a heaping, sobbing mess. She clutched onto his flannel in her fists, whimpering as his comforting warmth engulfed her like a blanket of protection.
And I don't know how I can do without
I just need you now
"Oh, my God," she choked out. "I thought you left. Again."
"I am."
She reeled back, shoving against his chest. "What?"
The nervous habit returned, and he was reaching up to ruffle the back of his hair. With a slow exhale, he squared his shoulders and bravely met her gaze, despite the turbulent emotions swimming in his.
"I am leaving."
"Why?"
He looked torn between decisions.
"Because I know that you're never going to leave him and be with me."
"Sam—"
"But I was going to ask you to come with me, anyway," he soldiered on determinedly. "The way I should have ten years ago."
The gravity of what he was suggesting slammed down so hard on her conscious; it robbed her of proper coherence, rendering her speechless all over again. Her reluctance didn't go unnoticed, and he took her silence for a rejection.
"Well," he croaked, clearing his throat. "I guess this is goodbye, then."
I just need you now
"Yeah, I guess it is."
Two days later, he was on the news.
There had been an accident.
Biff arrived home to an empty apartment. The lights were off; everything was quiet—too quiet—and he was baffled when an overwhelming sense of dread encompassed his chest like a steel cage. He was suffocating on the silence—an occurrence that seemed to be most common as of late—as he continually questioned and doubted the love of the one woman in his life.
He tossed the bunch of keys carelessly aside and strode towards the bedroom. With a flick of the switch, the space was fully illuminated, and it was then that he finally understood the emptiness he had felt the instant he stepped in. His wide eyes darted over to the dresser. Half of her beauty products were missing—her favorite perfume, that body lotion he completely adored, and even her hairbrush—and when he flung the wardrobe wide open, the gaping hole where her clothes used to be greeted him in a manner that both terrified and angered him to no end.
Storming over to the en suite, he was hit with the ghost of her sweet scent still lingering in the air. The impulse to punch a hole through the wall was all-consuming, but before he could think to do any damage, his cellphone began ringing. It wasn't a number he recognized—wasn't even an area code in a twenty-mile radius—but he answered it anyway.
"Hello?" he barked out.
There was a brief, non-verbal pause, and then he heard her voice.
"I know you're furious right now, and I'm sorry, but I have to go."
She had that uncanny ability to completely annihilate any raging emotions stirring deep in the pit of his stomach; he both loved and loathed her for it.
"Where are you?" he asked, his words strained.
"Doesn't matter," she replied. "I'm not coming back."
"Quinn—"
"You and I both know that we're not where we used to be." He swallowed her and listened to the tired sigh that came from the other end of the line. "I left the ring on the kitchen counter. Have a good life, Biff."
And then she hung up.
"So what now?"
Quinn drew a long breath, inhaling the clinical scent of disinfectant as she sat next to him on the hospital bed and gazed upon his battered face. A bandage covered what was a deep cut across his forehead and a purple bruise was forming at the corner of his jaw, but he looked serene, almost as though he didn't blame her for the tragedy. His hand—the one not hooked up to an IV—crept up to cover hers. She smiled—something soft and full of devotion— and turned her palm over to interlace her fingers with his.
"I don't know," she admitted with a slight chuckle. "We travel the world? Take everything we have and leave?"
"Or you can marry me."
"What?"
Sam grinned at her, bringing his face closer so that their noses brushed against each other.
"Marry me, Quinn Fabray, and be with me the way we should have ten years ago."
She blinked, her lashes fluttering against his cheek.
"Are you sure this time?"
"More than I've ever been."
She nodded.
Oh, baby, I need you now
"Then yes, I'll marry you."
A/N: The end! Well, that was fun, and a completely bad example of relationship behavior. Cheating is bad, and I do not advocate it, regardless of what I've written for our two favorite characters. Biff, though he was an ass in the show—and in this story—doesn't deserve what he got, but a story is a story, right? Hope you guys have enjoyed it!
Song used: "Need You Now" by Lady Antebellum