Finn rubbed the back of his neck and glanced towards the man beside him. "Um, hey Rach." He waved, his arm limp, and straightened himself. He glanced again towards the man, and Rachel narrowed her eyes, remembering the day that she caught Finn on their bed, fucking another person. She crossed her arms over her chest and huffed. "Again, I ask. What are you doing here?"

Flinching, the lanky man ran his fingers through his hair. "Look, I know I shouldn't be showing my face here and stuff. Especially after you caught us…" He bit his lip and eyed the man who nodded at him as a sign of encouragement. "But I just want to apologize for what I did to you." He locked eyes with Rachel and for a split second, she was taken back to the time when she loved Finn. Once, but no longer.

"I need to get my stuff back." Finn continued, stepping closer slowly, so Rachel wouldn't back away. "And I know it's not much, but it's all I have. And Matthew—" He glanced at the man beside him again. "He wants to meet you." Finn ducked his head and smiled, the side of his cheek tilting up to make his laugh lines more prominent. "Or, you know. I can just come back. That's cool too."

Rachel gnawed on her bottom lip. It wouldn't take too long for Finn to retrieve his things—she already packed them in boxes. She stepped aside and allowed the two men in her home. She led them upstairs and into the guest room where no one slept in. That was where she stored the boxes, the remnants of her life with Finn. "It's all in there." Rachel told him.

Finn nodded. "I know." He smiled and stood there, looking at Rachel. She had no idea what was running through his brain, but the fact that Matthew, who Rachel assumed to be Finn's boyfriend, seemed like a good man. A great guy for Finn. He was well-dressed and a head shorter than him. He had a genuine smile, a deep voice, and a proud walk.

"I'll leave you two to it, then." Rachel said. Before Finn could say anything else, she stepped out of the guest room and into her bedroom. She locked the door, pressed her back against it, and stared at the beams of sunlight streaming across her neat bed. It felt so unfair to see Finn, happy with someone else, while she stood alone with an empty bed and an empty life, only nourished by the paid hours she was able to spend with Quinn.

She took a deep breath and summoned her mask of calm. She will not hide away. She will be strong in front of Finn and Matthew, maybe even offer them a snack. Exiting her bedroom, she stalked down the hallway and peered in through the crack of the door. Finn was sitting on the edge of the bed, his hand clasped in Matthew's. They were speaking in low murmurs, soft voices that were too private for Rachel's ears.

But before she could successfully slink away once more, Matthew turned and saw her by the doorway. "Hey, Rachel." He smiled easily and stepped back from Finn, yet their hands remained clasped. "Thanks for organizing Finn's stuff in boxes. Our place is small, so it's nice to not have to open the boxes we don't really need."

"It was nothing." Rachel said. "I was just wondering. Do you two want snacks?"

In the kitchen, Rachel was making a pot of coffee and heating a loaf of banana bread in the toaster. Finn was telling her about his new job in a grocery store. It was not high-paying, he said. But it gives him something to do while Puck finds them gigs in dingy bars or pubs where no one goes to for the live music. And it helps with the groceries since he could get them cheaper.

Rachel watched them while she prepared the coffee in the pot. This was not the Finn she was used to. He was lighter, happier, and he often took Matthew's hand in his as if he can't do much without him around. She was happy for him—for them. And it was a relief to not hate Finn anymore, even after being cheated on, when it meant that at least… One of them was happy and requited in love.

Ignoring the thoughts in her head, Rachel approached the table and served the coffee and the heady scent of the warm, newly-toasted loaf of banana bread. She sat with the two of them, listening in on their domestic conversation, until Matthew turned to her. "Finn and his band are having this gig in a few weeks. You should totally come. They've improved since the last time."

Rachel laughed, unable to help but feel something akin to spite, the taste of irony rich in her mouth. The last time she saw Finn and his band perform, he was still with her. She passed, mentioning that she was too busy filming to go to pubs. She noted Finn's disappointment, and apologized. Perhaps after filming, she assured him.

Soon, Matthew got up and told them that he was going to bring the boxes down to take to the car. Finn nodded, watching him climb up the steps. "I'm over it, you know." Rachel said. "I'm over us. I'm not the same girl back in high school who would go through hell and high water to get you back. I've matured, Finn."

He smiled his handsome, boyish grin. "I know, Rach. I'm not even going to mention something like that. I just want you to forgive me. Matthew's amazing for me." He helped her with the dishes and leaned against the countertop. "He makes me feel things I'm not even sure actually exist. You know? Did you ever have that?"

Rachel glanced at the door that led to her office. She swallowed hard and nodded. "I have, actually."

"Oh, good." Finn squeezed Rachel's shoulder tenderly and kissed her cheek. "Hold on to that guy, okay? Or girl, if you're into that too. Since, y'know. After what happened to me." He flushed pink and winked. With a final hug, he met Matthew by the foot of the stairs and helped him with the few boxes that held his clothes and other memorabilia.

Rachel watched them drive away. Once they turned right at the stop light, she slammed the door shut, locked it, and unlocked the door as she strode into her office. There she found Quinn, a book propped open on her lap. The blonde smiled and closed the book—Barbra Streisand's biography—and placed it on the nearby table. "Shall I ask what happened?"

Shaking her head, Rachel kicked the door shut behind her. She ripped open her blouse, kicked off her panties and sauntered over to Quinn, whose hazel eyes were locked with hers. Her hands immediately went around Rachel's waist once she straddled her lap. It was her. It was Quinn who showed her emotions that have yet to be labelled by humanity. Rachel grasped the back of the blonde's neck and she sighed. All she was to Quinn was a customer.

But there was something in Quinn's eyes. A flicker. A light at the end of the tunnel of her doubts. Rachel cupped Quinn's jaw and suckled her bottom lip. This was a taste she could live with for the rest of her life. A warm body she could see herself waking up next to, for the next eighty years. An emotion she had yet to name.

She pulled back and took a deep breath. She was getting ahead of herself, and she knew that it was one of her faults. She always flew too far ahead, thought about the future way too soon. She shook her head, shuddered at Quinn's mouth against her neck, and took the escort's hands in hers to make her cup her breasts, warm and flush in her palms. Quinn looked as if she was about to speak, but Rachel's finger against her lips made her close her mouth.

Rachel reached back to grip Quinn's cock through her chinos. Quinn was already erect, and again, Rachel felt as if she was the most desirable woman in the planet if she could give Quinn such an erection. With help from the escort, she took her cock out and sank on her thick length. She was full again.

Her hips rolling, Rachel rode Quinn slowly. She relished her thickness, the pulsing heat of her cock, and the depth she could reach. Rachel listened to the heaviness of Quinn's breath, the way it tickled the base of her throat. "I think," Rachel began, her voice thick with arousal. "I need that six-month contract." She humped Quinn faster, her pussy slick with girl cum as it slicked up the prostitute's girth.

"I'm sure I-I can come up with something." Quinn wheezed, her hands gripping Rachel's ass tightly. She licked the base of Rachel's throat, her hips rising off the couch. Quinn tightened her arms around the actress' body and lifted her up. She kicked off her trousers and carried her to the nearest wall. Pressing her against it, Quinn met Rachel's mouth for a kiss, her cock slamming into her pussy, slick noises filling their ears.

This was something tender. This was something new. This was something Rachel could definitely live with.

Rachel clung to Quinn, her breath coming out in soft, ragged pants against the escort's ear. There it was again. That noun, so improper and impersonal and all Quinn should be. Yet as her orgasm dawned upon her, she felt torn between the pleasures of the flesh and the ache in her heart. The emptiness, swirling like dark mist along her ribcage. It built up a pressure in the back of her eyelids, tears, like molten lava, threatening to fall.

And so Rachel buried her face against Quinn's neck. Her smooth, peachy skin, was warm and damp with sweat. Rachel distracted herself enough to cease the tears, while Quinn grunted and fucked her against the wall. "I'm coming. Oh, I'm coming…" Rachel panted, her pussy clenching and her cum trickled out of her with each thrust of Quinn's cock.

"Fuck, that's it." She pulled back and kissed Rachel, and her heart soared. For an actress, Rachel was unable to distinguish if the people around her were acting. But as Quinn's cum pulsed inside her in thick, warm cum coating her inner walls.

They stood there, shaking, wrecked with the tremors of their shared orgasm. Rachel wrapped her arms around Quinn and struggled to breathe evenly, while the blonde approached the armchair and eased Rachel down on it. She pulled out, pressing another kiss against Rachel's mouth. "Do you really want the six months? Because it's a contract thing and it's quite expensive." Quinn laughed and rubbed Rachel's sides. "I'm never really good at sales talks."

Rachel chuckled and kissed Quinn's jaw. "I can afford you, you know." Something about the statement gnawed at her, but she ignored it and smiled.

"Alright then." Quinn tucked her cock back in her boxers and buttoned up her pants. "Let me just go get my briefcase." Once she returned, she sat on the floor and took out a sheaf of papers. "Here you go. It's basically just an agreement thing so I can keep track. For six months you have me for your disposal, whenever and wherever, for as long as you want. Unless I'm with another client, I will always respond to your texts or calls as soon as possible." She leaned back, arms propped behind her. "And it also means you pay me the twenty five grand now, and the other half later. But if you're not content with my service, you can say so and you won't have to pay." Quinn smirked and shrugged. "Though to be honest, no one has done that before. But it's there, and there's always a first time for everything."

Rachel slipped on an oversized shirt and nothing else as she read through the contract. True enough, everything Quinn mentioned was stated plainly, with no twisted, hidden meanings. She took a pen from her desk, and a blank cheque, which she signed with the aforementioned amount, before signing the contract itself. Rachel handed both to Quinn, and it felt as if she just signed her heart over to the slender, blonde-haired beauty sitting on her parquetted floors. Not that her heart was made of money.

Quinn got up from the floor and smoothed out her clothing. She carried Rachel, making her squeal, and with a smirk, took her to her bedroom. "You know what? You don't have to pay me for the fifteen hours." Quinn whispered against her neck. "Think of it as a discount."

The following week, Rachel found herself once again, in one of the pristine conference rooms, alongside Brittany. There was a tension in the air which Rachel wanted to diffuse, but Brittany was tense. She was curt in her responses, and she shifted ever so often that by the time Elle Beasly arrived for another meeting, Rachel was fidgeting as well. "Oh good, you're both here." She motioned for someone outside, and in stepped one of the leads from a TV show that Rachel had no time to watch. He had a shock of licorice hair, broad shoulders, and a deep rosewood tone to his skin. "This is Steven, and he's to be your boyfriend."

Rachel seized up and glared at Elle Beasly. "After I clearly said that I don't want a boyfriend—"

"Oh?" Elle's sculpted brow rose and her manicured nails—today a deep carmine—rapped the surface of the oak table. "But Brittany said you're conceding to me." She turned to the blonde who avoided both hers and Rachel's gaze. "Am I wrong, Ms. Pierce?"

"You knew about this?" Rachel's nails dug deep into Brittany's arm. "You told her I'm okay with it? Brittany, how could you?!"

Wrenching free from Rachel's tight grip, Brittany locked their eyes together. What Rachel always associated with the warm ocean breeze now reminded her of the arctic, cold and craggy, like an iceberg. "I'm doing this as your friend." Brittany insisted. "I'm doing this for you. Your career. Remember what you told me; what you made me promise you? That I would do anything to further your career. You made me say that, Rachel. So don't blame this on me." She shot out of her seat and disappeared into the elevator, leaving a stunned Rachel.

It was true. She made her say those things back when Rachel was struggling with her first official stage role. She needed the stage and it was through Brittany that she would be able to achieve her goals of stark bright lights and neon signs that bore her name. And now, she felt as if her heart was caving in. She was surrounded by the real enemies: Elle Beasly and this Steven."

Elle motioned for Steven to sit down by Rachel. "I will leave you two to get acquainted. One of you should at least make an effort." Her eyes were trained onto Rachel. "Trust me, Miss Berry. I've been in this business far longer than you have, and this is a wise course to take."

Once she left, Rachel allowed herself to fully look at Steven. He had a naturally-smiling face, pearly-white teeth like polished tombstones, and a leathery scent. "I know I'm not an ideal." He said, his voice a rich baritone. "But we need this, Miss Berry—can I call you Rachel?"

Nodding, Rachel crossed her legs and her arms. "Let's at least be friends." Steven offered. "Don't let this PR thing get to you. I promise I won't be a clingy boyfriend or anything." He laughed, wheedling a chuckle from Rachel. "See? That smile is gorgeous."

After a few minutes of easy conversation, Rachel found herself appreciating Steven's humour, and the warmth he seemed to emanate. She didn't mind being around him, even thought of him as a friend in the dreary world of fame and show business. And when Steven asked her if she would accompany him for coffee, Rachel accepted. She knew that this was one of the multitude of tests she would have to go through for the sake of her acting career. She needed to grovel before Brittany for her forgiveness.

They stepped out of the elevator and Steven offered his arm to Rachel. She looped her arms around his bicep and clutched him tightly. Outside, at the other end of the glass walls, the paparazzi waited. Rachel took a deep breath, feigned a smile, and nodded up at Steven. Together, they walked into the thrall.

Show time.

New York had fallen victim to a few casual snow storms that only inhibited traffic for a few hours. Quinn stepped over a patch of black ice and almost got in the way of a snow tractor that was heaping mounds of snow along the side of the buildings. The cold nips at her cheeks, and Quinn pulled her scarf tighter around her neck. She just finished with a client, and her legs were still numb as she strode down the sidewalk to head back to her apartment for a warm bath and to finish off the fifth of scotch she had tucked in her liquor cabinet.

They've both been occupied, Quinn and Rachel both, but it had no impact on how often Rachel texted her to visit her in her brownstone. Once, Quinn came over and saw Rachel, sprawled naked on her couch. Often, Rachel thought about giving Quinn her own key, but the escort was always against it. It felt too personal; too familiar, like she was a girlfriend, and she didn't want that false hope clinging to her like it was her salvation.

Passing by a news stand, Quinn glimpsed something that caught her eye. Quinn read the headline and her heart squeezed itself in her ribcage. The air was knocked out of her, and her vision dimmed for half a second before she managed to catch herself. She took deep breaths, her lungs seizing as it was filled with frosty air that burned her throat. The headline read:

'Rising star Rachel Berry seen out and about with her beau, Steven Morgan.'

Confusion welled up in Quinn's chest like a spring. They were client and customer, not a pair of lovers that were against the odds due to Rachel's fame and Quinn's line of work. No, no. They can never be such. Still, she stared at the photograph. Rachel smiling, her arm around the boyfriend. He had to be fake, Quinn thought, her teeth bared.

"Listen, pal. If you're not gonna buy that magazine, will you stop glaring at it? You might set it on fire." The proprietor of the news stand drawled, a cigarette jutting out between his lips. "It's five bucks, just in case you make up your mind within the decade."

Quinn slapped the money in the man's hand and went off with the supposed entertainment magazine. She had no idea why she purchased it. What was she going to do, use the photograph to curse this Steven Morgan into the fiery depths of hell in exchange for her soul? Impossible. For one, she sold her soul a long time ago. And he seemed like a good guy. Stable, strong, and not too tall for Rachel. Quinn swallowed hard and glanced up at the bright winter sun that beat down on her skin. Yet she felt cold.

She arrived at her apartment and stripped herself down to nothing but her boxers. The frost clung to her skin like a leech, slimy, her thighs thawing as she did a few jumping jacks. While the tub was filling up with steaming water, Quinn glanced at the tabloid tube filled with lies and stories about people who lie for a living.

Unsure on whether she should read it, Quinn took it with her to the bath along with one of her favourite books. She placed these things on a small desk, along with her phone, just in case someone called. Quinn sank into the heated water and moaned as fire lapped her skin, melting away at her worries for half a minute.

Quinn reached for the tabloid magazine when her phone rang. "Hello?"

"Yeah, hey Quinn. You're going to Speakeasy, right? Because we're lacking a poet and you haven't been on the stage for months, dude. What's up with that?"

Rubbing her temples, Quinn glanced at the caller ID. It was one of the organizers for the poetry event she tried to frequent but could not, due to the onslaught of work. "Sorry, Taylor. I'll be there next week. You can count on it."

Quinn finished her bath and rose out of the tub, towel-dried herself, and went to her room. The tabloid, soaked and soggy, lay forgotten.

She would never be sad about this.

today's proverb: The first time your heart was torn from your chest, you thought you were dying. You knew you could not live with the empty space. So you replaced your heart with metaphors and set out to create a world where the metaphor was unbreakable. Mindy Nettifee.

I might not be able to update regularly for the next few days due to orientation week in university, which meant a busy week filled with exhaustion, ten-headed dragons, frustration, and crowds. I hope you all understand!