It happens when our feet brush beneath tables. You keep your foot against mine and I feel a nearly-but-not-quite tingle.
Not quite, being the operative words.
You do the meaningful eye contact thing, and (for once) fall silent and let other people do some talking.
It's when you're drunk (I'm drunk) at the not completely awful Hudmel party and we are somehow too close together.
Puckerman is throwing some lascivious looks our way. Santana looks more than a little interested in the way your hand is on my thigh. In the way I've let my hand trail up your back.
You talk, all earnest and focused and trying to be interesting. And, really, you would be – if only you'd stop trying so hard.
And, I forget to wonder about what happened with Hudson, that you're here and not responding to the hand he has creeping up Sugar's skirt.
And, you're tiny and adorable, moving with me.
I don't remember you being able to dance like this.
Until it's not so much dancing, but an attempt to guide you from the room.
And honestly, I just meant to escort you to the spare room.
I just meant to see you settled, with some water, some aspirin, and a few light regrets.
That was my mistake. I know that.
Because then you're topless.
Because then I am too.
And then our clothes are gone, and so is my sense.
And, when we embrace in the morning, you look so beautiful and relaxed, and quiet.
Maybe it's because I'm a cold bitch.
Maybe it's because the capacity for this kind of emotion has left me.
You look so hopeful, so vulnerable with that long brown hair, cascading around your face.
All I feel is regret.
If it helps, it's quite a lot of regret.
But that's not really the same as the affection (the love?) I see in those gorgeous eyes.
And I'll never return it.
Really.
Love with Rachel Berry isn't in the cards for Quinn Fabray.
Not if I can help it.