At 2'o'clock in the morning, Quinn Fabray sat bolt upright in her bed with a rough, hoarse gasp. She pressed a shaking hand to her heart, as if she could sooth its violent pounding with touch alone.

What the hell was that?

Her sheets were tangled around her legs. Both pillows had been knocked to the floor. She kicked herself free and drew her knees to her chest, burying her face against them. She was trying to dispel the images that played across her mind like shadows against a wall—a flash of blonde hair; the reach of a tanned, strong arm; the muscles of his back, moving with an animalistic grace as he seized her waist.

It wasn't a nightmare. It would have been one thing if it had been—Quinn hadn't had a problem with chasing away ghoulish creatures of her imagination since she was eight.

No, it was something entirely different, entirely unexpected, and entirely unwanted.

A—she could barely even think the word, as if letting it form in her mind was some sort of absolution that she refused to give these feelings—sex dream.

About Sam Evans.

Quinn stumbled out of bed, hating the way her legs were weak and shaking. It had been the most vivid dream she'd ever had: she'd been able to smell the fresh, grassy scent of his soap, taste the lemon-flavored chapstick that she had seen him apply to his lips a few times in Glee Club. And she had felt a raw, almost harsh desire that was alien to her in her waking life, which she honestly preferred.

She could still hear his voice in her ear, crooning her praises, asking—begging—if he could touch her here, touch her there. "I want you, Quinn. I want you so much."

Questioning her sanity as she did so, calling herself every name in the book, Quinn grabbed her phone from where it was charging on her desk. The only reason she even had his number was because he'd given it to her when they were practicing their duet.

Lucky I'm in love with my best friend,

Lucky to have been where I have been,

Lucky to be coming home again.

She bit her lip, scrolling through her contacts list until she came to Sam's number. She navigated her way to a blank text message, and—before she could chastise herself one more time, before she could remind herself that it was two in the morning and he probably wasn't awake anyway, before she could scare these strange but horribly inviting emotions away—she typed out a message:

Hey, it's Quinn. I was wondering if you wanted to hang out tomorrow. It's supposed to be super nice out, so I was thinking we could go to the park. Maybe have a picnic?

Her hands shaking harder than ever, she put her phone down and turned away, trying to calm her erratic breathing so she could actually go back to sleep. It was way too late to expect him to be awake; she would just have to wait til an earthly hour to get a reply—if he even wanted to answer, considering the way she'd made it very clear that their dinner at Breadstix was only because they'd won fair and square and deserved the meal. It wasn't a date, she'd insisted.

But now she wanted it to be, and it was probably too late.

She was stopped by a low, familiar buzzing sound: her phone, vibrating against the desk. Quinn turned too hastily, almost fell, and managed to catch herself on the desk chair. She snatched up her phone, her heart lodged solidly in her throat.

I was afraid you'd never ask. I'll bring my mom's potato salad. Unless you don't like potato salad. Then I can totally bring something else.

She laughed out loud, because she could almost hear him saying it in an eager, excited rush and picture him smiling as he did. She was in the middle of typing her reply—Sounds good. I love potato salad.—when another incoming message interrupted her, also from Sam.

This is a date, right? Please say it's a date, Quinn.

Quinn hesitated. She thought of her dream, how the thing that had bothered her the most wasn't that the dream had been startlingly graphic, or even that she'd had it at all. Sam made her feel…good. Safe. Wanted. She didn't want to rely on anyone to feel like that, because once you did, it was so easy to get hurt, so easy to have it taken away from you.

But maybe Sam was different. And that was what scared her most of all—she so desperately wanted him to be different.

Yes, she responded. It's a date.