Author's Notes: After months in the making and countless words written and cut, here's another fic for your enjoyment. The extended (and they are extended) author's note can be found on my Tumblr.

All due credit goes to Mike Ownby for doing edits, feedback, proofreading, and cheerleading in addition to his usual Americanization work (I'd say I'm getting bang for my buck if I was paying him).

If you asked Quinn to describe the coffee shop she worked at, she would have to pause to think.

It's no Starbucks, that's for sure, with its eclectic decorations (or lack thereof). It's also not the stark modern Insta-worthy place adored by social media and Buzzfeed listicles.

The employee uniform is strictly all black: black T-shirt, black long pants, and black apron ("a constant reminder that all of you are my faceless coffee-serving money-making drones," the manager had said). Quinn hadn't batted an eyelid. Sue Sylvester probably was eighteen beans short of an espresso, but she still managed to pay her employees a living wage, and that alone was why Quinn was more than willing to put up with her idiosyncrasies.

But apart from the black clothing, the staff were allowed to personalize their aprons with badges and pins in any way they pleased.

("I suppose the metal will provide additional protection should you be attacked by a gun-wielding hooligan while making me money," Sue had sniffed. "It's an acceptable temporary measure until the government accepts the truth that Kevlar vests should be part of a standard employee uniform. But what do those pathetic pencil-pushing statute-stamping flunkies know?")

Sam's apron fitted most closely into Sue's vision, the apron more closely resembling plate armor with all the anime can badges and Star Wars enamel pins he'd attached to it.

Tina's apron, while not as encrusted with geek memorabilia as Sam's, was a riot of color, mainly because of the complete collection of pride flags that were proudly displayed front and center.

Rachel's apron only sported music and Broadway pins arranged in severely regimented rows (Santana had often not-so-quietly speculated that Rachel used a protractor to arrange them). The arrangement made them look like military medals, which Sam never stopped making fun of her for.

Mike's taste in apron decoration is… eclectic. Biggest collection of varsity sports pins in Manhattan, he'd once told Quinn.

Quinn, in contrast, has precisely five enamel pins arranged on the top of her apron: crossed pompoms given to her by Santana when she'd started this job ("because you look like the bitchy head cheerleader stereotype"); a gold treble clef from Rachel (picked off her own apron), a Smash the Patriarchy badge from Tina (Quinn would never tell, but this is probably her favorite), a Buckeyes hockey stick from Mike ("Ohio pride"), and a little green creature Sam had taken off his apron and attached to hers ("Bare your apron is," he'd intoned in a weird accent).

Our story begins when Sam Evans emerges from the stockroom with a sack of coffee beans and a grin. "Heads up, Fabray," says Sam. He grunts softly as he eases the sack onto the floor. "We got a new kid."

Quinn frowns. "New kid?"

"Yep. She was supposed to get her training down at Times Square, but St James fucked up his roster, so they can't take her." Sam wipes his hands on his jeans. "She's gonna start next Monday."

"Great." Quinn pulls out her phone, laying it on her store schedule. "They haven't emailed me anything. How do you know this?"

"Mercedes told me."

Quinn scowls. "That's an unfair advantage, dating HR. Why can't you date other store baristas and cause workplace drama like the rest of us?" She narrows her eyes. "Wait. Mercedes told you? Is that why you took fifteen minutes to get one sack of beans out of stock?"

He holds up both hands. "Don't know what you're talkin' about."

"Yeah, right."

Sam chuckles. "You're just jealous that me and 'Cedes are in lurve."

She makes a disgusted face at him. "Do you say that to her?"

"Yeah? She thinks it's cute."

"You're so full of shit, Evans. You suck at changing the subject." She shoves a mop into his chest. "You're on cleanup, someone spilled a drink out front."

He cranes his neck to look, then groans. "Awww man, an entire frappe?"

"You deserved it," she laughs. "Maybe you'll think twice about talking back to your supervisor after that."

"The only reason Will made you supervisor is 'cause you happened to be the only staff in the shop when Sue dropped by for a surprise visit!" he yells over his shoulder.

"Details, details. It doesn't matter how I got my powers, what matters is how I use it." Quinn turns her attention back to her schedule.

The first thing she sees when she clocks into work on Monday morning is Sam making animated conversation – Quinn just knows he's doing his best Luke Skywalker impression, that's what he usually does for new people. Which means the person he's talking to is the new kid.

"Q! Hey!" Sam beckons her over. "This is Marley."

When Sam said new kid, Quinn was expecting someone impossibly young; a blue-eyed sunny kid from a small town far West. She's surprised to find her mental image is almost spot-on – except for the fact Marley also has long brunette hair tied up in a ponytail and is a girl.

A very pretty girl.

"Hi," says Quinn.

Marley is already wearing the employee-issue shirt and pants. "Hi. It's nice to meet you," she says, holding out a hand to Quinn. A faint Southern twang colors her voice.

"Nice to meet you, too." Quinn shakes her hand. "I'm Quinn, the supervisor. I see you've met Sam, our welcome wagon."

"Sam, I am," he says. Marley giggles.

"Welcome to Sylvester Corp," says Quinn, completely ignoring him. "If you'll follow me, I'll get your nametag and apron."

"Thanks, Quinn."

In the back room, Quinn sifts through the boxes, pulling out an apron. "Try this on, and I'll get your nametag sorted," Quinn says, pulling off the plastic wrap. "What name do you want on it?"

"Huh?"

Quinn smiles, not unkindly. "We're pretty lax on names here. We've had people going by nicknames, or something else not on their birth certificate, if you catch my drift."

"Oh!" Marley's expression lights up, then settles into a warm smile. "Just Marley is fine. Thanks for clarifying that, anyway."

Quinn nods. "I don't think 'Just Marley' will fit on here," she quips, holding up the little grey tag.

She gets a peal of laughter. "Funny."

"Tell it to Sam. He's completely convinced I don't have a sense of humor." Quinn pulls a black Sharpie from her apron pocket, uncapping it. "How do I spell that?"

Marley spells it for her. Quinn writes in neat capitals, shaking the tag to dry the ink. "Done."

"Thanks!" Marley holds out her hand for the tag; Quinn, looking amused, drops it into her palm. "It's perfect. I love it already."

"It's just a nametag," she says, trying not to laugh at Marley's enthusiasm.

"Yeah, but it's missing a lil' something… may I borrow your Sharpie, please?" Face screwed up in concentration, she adds a little heart after her name. "There. Even more perfect."

Quinn rolls her eyes. "Whatever you say," she says genially. She heads back out, Marley behind her.

Sam whistles when he catches sight of them. "Looking good, Marley," he calls.

"Thanks, Sam."

"In honor of your first day here in corporate America…" He makes a show of patting all over his metal-encrusted apron before selecting one with an "Aha!", unpinning it, and finally presenting it to Marley with a flourish. "Your very first apron pin."

She laughs. "Thank you." Marley laughs harder when she takes a closer look at it. "I love it. Would you do me the honor of pinning it on me?"

Sam does. He steps back when he's done.

Quinn recognizes that pin immediately. It's an enamel pin which says just brew it, the words edged with gold piping; she'd often mocked Sam for owning it.

And now he's passed it on to another.

The triumphant look Sam shoots her tells Quinn he knows exactly what he's doing. She pokes Sam in the ribs. "You're a moron."

He laughs. "Someday, Fabray, you'll laugh at my jokes."

"I already think you're a joke. Good enough?"

Sam, being the idiot he is, just grins at her. "C'mon, Marley, lemme show you how we do things around here," he says, leading her away by the elbow, shooting a meaningful look at Quinn behind Marley's back.

"Okay?"

Quinn watches them go, a deeply aggrieved expression on her face, before she shakes it off and gets back to work.

The next time Quinn sees her, it's on a quiet Tuesday afternoon. She's alone in the store because weekday afternoons are slow for the business, and Sue will only allow one staff member to work the shift. Quinn's usually the one taking these most of the time, because she's literally being paid to stand around.

Quinn needs as many hours as she can get. She's saving up for a summer internship in London, and while her scholarship covers most of the important things, the extra cash would come in handy.

The bell dings. "Welcome – " she starts, then cuts herself off when Marley walks in.

"Hey, Quinn," says the other girl brightly.

"Hi. What're you doing here? I thought you're not working today."

Marley smiles. "Yeah, I'm not. Sam said it would be a good idea if I checked out the place as a customer. Get an outside perspective and all."

"You shouldn't be listening to Sam, he's an idiot," drawls Quinn, eliciting a giggle.

"Don't let him hear you call him an idiot."

"I call him an idiot to his face most of the time, one more won't hurt," says Quinn dismissively. "So… can I get you anything?"

"Uhh, okay." Marley squints at the large chalkboard on the wall. "Gosh, that looks different from way over here," she mutters in a furtive manner that clearly isn't meant for Quinn's ears – but is somehow audible all the way where Quinn is standing. "Could I get an iced tea?"

"No coffee?" Quinn asks, already moving to reach under the counter and retrieve the large jug of brewed tea she keeps there.

Marley smiles ruefully. "I don't really like coffee."

"You don't? And you applied to work at a coffeeshop?"

Marley laughs. "At least you know I'll never be drinking the products under the counter?"

Quinn smiles. On a whim, she tops off the drink with a lemon slice, pushing it over the counter to Marley. "Sugar syrup's on the side," she points out.

"That looks great, thanks. How much is it?"

Quinn waves away the money. "Employee benefits. Besides, it's just tea."

"Are you sure you can afford to give out free drinks?"

Quinn shrugs. "I'm the manager right now, and the manager says that's fine. I won't tell if you won't."

Marley just beams at her, this goofy grin that reminds Quinn of a grade schooler showing off their macaroni art. "Thanks, Quinn. I really appreciate it."

"You're welcome." There it is, that twang; it's more apparent now. "Marley, can I ask you a question?"

"Shoot."

"I know you probably get this like a million times, but are you from Texas, by any chance?"

Marley smiles ruefully. "Born and raised in Wichita Falls. The accent gave me away, didn't it?"

"If it helps, not really. I could only tell because I spent years getting rid of my Midwestern accent. No wonder Sam's so fond of you, he's from Tennessee and he's obsessed with country music."

"Michigan?"

"Lima, Ohio."

Marley laughs. "Close enough."

Quinn already likes her. She's nice, and a lot funnier than the last trainee they had, a dude with a mohawk and a penchant for lewd jokes. His training had gone well until he'd suggested they get a drink together after work and wouldn't take no for an answer.

"Quinn?"

"Hmm?"

"Why are you alone in here?" Marley looks round. "I'd have thought there would've been more people."

"It's 2pm on a Tuesday," explains Quinn. "We're usually busy in the mornings and evenings. One person's enough to handle the occasional customer that comes in."

"Oh. Cool. Like me?"

Quinn smiles. "I don't think you qualify as a customer if you don't pay for your drink."

"Hey, the manager said this was on the house," says Marley, mock-indignantly.

Quinn's about to respond when another person walks in. With an apologetic smile to Marley, she snaps back into customer service mode and takes the man's order. His grande latte is simple enough to make and Quinn works on autopilot. She tamps the ground coffee down in the basket with two quick and efficient twists. While she locks the basket with one hand, she cleans the steam wand with the other, letting out a quick jet of steam and wiping it dry with the towel kept on hand. The espresso slowly gurgles and drips into the paper cup below as Quinn steams the milk with both hands, fingers tapping the bottom of the jug to check the temperature, constantly in motion.

Finally, she taps the jug on the counter to remove bubbles before fluidly pouring it out into the cup, shaking it towards the end to produce a neat rosetta pattern in the foam. "Thanks for waiting," she says, capping the cup and handing it to the man.

When Quinn turns back to Marley, she isn't expecting the awestruck expression on the other girl's face. "That was amazing!" gushes Marley.

"Uh, thanks?"

"Like, you just went whoosh," she gestures with one hand, "and you did the cleaning without looking, and it was so smooth, like a bucket of cream." Marley pulls a face. "Yesterday did not go well for me."

"Yesterday was literally your first day on the job," says Quinn, arching an eyebrow. "You'll get the hang of it in no time."

"You think so?"

"I know so. I remember being overwhelmed by the number of things I had to learn when I started, but now? Second nature." Quinn nods at her. "Why don't we give it a go now?"

"What? Now?"

"There aren't any customers at the moment," says Quinn. "Grab a spare apron from the back."

Once Marley's dressed, Quinn steps aside. "Go ahead and make a latte. I won't say anything, I wanna see how you work."

Marley's movements are definitely not as polished as Quinn's, and she does fumble a lot. There are a few moments in which she has to pause, brow furrowed, as she tries to remember what to do next, occasionally punctuated by mumbling under her breath. The latte she produces is passable, but Marley struggles with the hot milk.

"Having trouble?"

"I thought I had it that time," replies Marley hotly, glaring at the coffee cup as though it's personally offended her.

Quinn laughs. "Yeah, it can be really tricky to master. Want help?"

"Yes, please. Ugh!" The last vehement exclamation is directed at a blob of milk foam sitting on the counter.

Quinn glances at the blob. "You might wanna get that first." She offers Marley a dish towel, which is gratefully accepted.

"Done."

"Right. Why don't you go on and heat some milk?" Quinn checks the top of the machine and selects two coffee cups, shifting them closer for easier access.

Marley cleans the steam wand, wiping it dry in preparation for the milk. Her movements are efficient; Quinn nods approvingly.

Encouraged, she dips the tip of the wand into the milk and turns it on, the jug swirling while her free hand tests the temperature of the bottom of the jug.

"Schue taught us to froth milk with dish soap," says Quinn fondly.

"Schue?"

"Will Schuester? The assistant manager?"

"Oh, Will. He did my interview." Marley frowns at her jug. "Dish soap?"

"Yeah, you can get a pretty good froth with that. And he didn't want us to burn milk. Sam is pretty heavy-handed with the wand, just so you know."

"I'm glad y'all trust me with the milk," responds Marley dryly. After a quick peek, she lifts the wand out, cleaning it again. "Okay, all done."

"Let me see."

Quinn takes a spoon from the counter and stirs the hot milk with it. She's pleased to note that the froth has the perfect consistency, and tells Marley so. She gets a sunny smile in response.

"Do you wanna try that latte again?"

Marley straightens up and nods determinedly. Eventually, she produces a better latte. Quinn sips it, sighing with pleasure.

"Good?"

"Yeah," she says, smiling. "No pattern?"

"Sam didn't have time to teach me how to pour." She picks up a spoon, pauses, before putting it back down. "I've tried it a few times whenever I had the time, but I just can't get the hang of pouring it right."

Quinn nods. "Want me to teach you?"

Marley stops staring forlornly at her latte and brightens. "Really?"

"Yeah, really." Quinn steps back behind the machine. "I think you've got the steamed milk down," she says, examining the milk jug, "so lemme make a fresh batch and I can show you how to pour."

"Sure."

She's aware of Marley watching every move she makes. Despite the intense scrutiny, Quinn doesn't allow herself to be fazed. "Okay," she says, jug in hand, "when you start to pour, hold the jug higher. You want to get the milk under the crema."

"Crema?"

"The brown stuff on top of the espresso."

"Oh."

"The surface should be uniformly brown," continues Quinn, keeping the stream of hot milk thin to slow the rate pouring into the cup. So far, Marley is keeping up, brow furrowed as she continually shifts her attention between Quinn's cup and her own.

"Once it's about half full, move the jug closer, keep pouring in the middle, and start to slowly wiggle the jug when you see milk foam appearing in the cup. Yeah, like that. Keep it consistent."

Marley just nods.

"Okay, that's good. You're almost done… for the last bit, you're gonna pour through the rosetta, so move your jug just above the cup and go." Quinn finishes her own rosetta with a flourish and puts it to one side.

Marley's rosetta base looks passable, but the last flourish through isn't clean enough and the pattern smudges together. "Shoot!"

Quinn shrugs. "You almost had it. I think you just need a little more practice."

"I guess so." She's laughing, looking pink-cheeked and exhilarated. "That was the closest I'd ever gotten to making… something," Marley glances ruefully at the blobby brown-and-white pattern on top of her latte.

"It's not just something." Quinn taps the side of Marley's latte. "Look, you got the pour pattern right. That's not easy to do. You just need to keep doing it, I think."

"Maybe you're just a good teacher?"

Quinn laughs. "Better than Sam, at any rate."

Marley just smiles.

One of Quinn's supervisor duties is rostering: every Friday afternoon is spent poring over her phone as she schedules people for shifts. Just as she's wrapping up next week's roster, Rachel leans over, casually scanning the list. "Quinn, why doesn't Marley have any shifts?"

"Shit." Quinn pulls out her phone again, shooting off a quick text. "I completely forgot to ask her when she's available to work."

The reply comes almost instantaneously.

Im free mon, wed, thurs afternoons, n weekends :)

Quinn breathes a sigh of relief. Marley's hours don't clash with any of the others, which means she doesn't have to redo the schedule. And text everyone again.

Great, can you work next Mon and Thurs, 12-6, and Sat 10-6?

ok :) see u ;)

Quinn is mildly puzzled by the abundance of smileys, but pleased nonetheless.

"You look happy."

"Huh?"

Rachel wipes her hands on the dish towel hanging from her belt. "You're smiling."

"We work in customer service, Berry; smiling is part of the job."

"Smiling at your phone isn't," points out Rachel.

Quinn hastily shoves her phone into the back pocket of her pants, doing her best to ignore Rachel's smirk.

"She's cute, isn't she?" Rachel asks.

Quinn arches an eyebrow. "You're insane."

"I think she's very attractive, too," continues Rachel placidly, as though Quinn hasn't spoken. "I would ask her out if I wasn't already inordinately fond of that cute guy who comes in on Thursdays." She follows it with a dreamy sigh.

"You suck." Quinn lightly shoves her as she walks past.

"Ask her out!"

"Go tidy the stockroom!" Quinn yells back.

Rachel doesn't budge. "As you know, Quinn, I took a psychology class last semester and I believe you are exercising an avoidance strategy. Experts say that dealing with the stressor is the only way to reduce this anxiety you are undoubtedly feeling."

Quinn narrows her eyes. Rachel takes the hint and disappears into the stockroom.

Quinn scowls at her phone as she walks into work. There's been some changes with the internship details, and she needs to send in some of her documents –

"Hi, Quinn!"

Quinn looks up. The return greeting she has on the tip of her tongue is forgotten when she notices the neat row of pins adorning the top half of Marley's apron.

"Whoa." Quinn nods at her apron. "I see you've got more pins."

Marley looks even more excited. "Yes! Aren't they amazing?"

It's fairly easy to guess who gifted which pin; there are music notes which can only be from Rachel. There's a small flag pin which can only be from Tina, because she's the only one with flag pins in their outlet. Sam, of course, is her main supplier of the nerdy pins and terrible coffee puns.

"They're pretty amazing," says Quinn, and is immediately graced with another impossibly sunny smile.

"Hey, Marley," says Mike, walking out from the back. "Got room for one more?" He holds up something shiny.

"Mike! Oh wow, thanks!" Marley practically skips to him. Mike squints, searching for a space to add a pin.

"You too, Chang?" Quinn asks jokingly.

"I'm the only one who hasn't given the newbie a pin yet," he shoots back. He finally spots a place and affixes the pin, patting it proudly.

"Actually, that's not true." To Quinn's surprise, it's Marley who's spoken. She looks a little downcast. "Quinn hasn't given me a pin yet."

Mike gasps. "Fabray!"

"I don't have any of my own!" Quinn defends herself – weakly, even to her own ears. "All of mine are gifts."

Mike gives her a look. Quinn sighs.

"Don't worry about it, Quinn," says Marley warmly – with a smile which doesn't seem to reach her eyes. To Mike, she smiles warmly and says: "Thanks, Mike, I love it so much."

Mike shoots Quinn another look over the top of Marley's head that clearly says fix it. Quinn just sighs.

Quinn arrives home at her cramped apartment. Sighing, she kicks off her sneakers and drops her keys into the bowl.

"Fabray! You're home!"

Quinn almost drops her coffee mug. "Fuck, Santana. How did you get in here?"

"You gave me a key."

"I did not."

"Oh, right. Berry did."

"I know she did not, because she drew up that list of house rules in which only the people on this lease are allowed to have keys. No exceptions."

"Fine. I may or may not have borrowed your key that other time we got shit-faced stinking drunk and made a copy so my bitch of a roommate can't use the threat of homelessness to coerce me into doing her share of the chores."

"What the fuck, S."

"I know, right? It's got to be a crime, no way anyone can threaten homelessness for not doing some fucking laundry."

"No, I meant..." Quinn sighs and doesn't finish her sentence. "You're not living with us. You shouldn't be breaking into our apartment. Like, the phrase breaking in already implies you shouldn't be here."

Santana makes a sound of disgust. "Trust me, I wouldn't be here if I wasn't desperate. That bitch brought what sounded like the entire cast of Rent into her room. What was that saying? Don't be knocking if the house be rocking?"

Quinn rubs her temples, feeling a migraine coming on."Ew."

"I know! Bitch's legs be open like Grand Central Station." Here Santana's expression turns pleading, like a kicked puppy dog. "I just need someplace to do my homework and crash. I'll be out of your hair tomorrow, fingers crossed, Girl Scout's honor."

"Weren't you kicked out of the Girl Scouts? Defrocked, drummed out, whatever?"

"Way to kick a chica when she's down."

"... Fine," sighs Quinn. "But you're doing the dishes tonight."

"Fuck you, but okay." Santana shuffles back to the mess of paper and books she's made of the kitchen table. "How was work today, sweetie?"

Quinn makes a displeased noise and flicks a piece of the trail mix she's eating at Santana. "It was okay. The place hasn't been the same since you left, honestly."

The mix bounces off Santana's forehead and on her notes, where it's snatched up and devoured. "Aww, you say the sweetest things."

"I meant that it's a lot quieter and saner now you're gone."

"With Chang Squared and Evans around? With Berry? Yeah, I bet it is." Santana rests her elbow on the table, propping her chin on top of her fist. "No, really, how are things? Got a replacement for me yet?"

"There's this new girl called Marley."

"Nice. She cute?"

"Can you not think with your dick for once?"

"Oooh, Fabray, is that deflection I hear? She's that cute, huh?"

Quinn glowers. "Shut up."

Santana moves closer so she can dig her hand into Quinn's trail mix. "Really cute, then."

A banging at the loft door announces Rachel's arrival. "Who's cute?"

"Berry! Perfect timing. How cute is this new girl Marley?"

"Very cute," Rachel informs her, seemingly unbothered by Santana's presence in her home. "In fact, I was just telling Quinn the other day that if I wasn't actively trying to get this customer's number, I would ask her out."

"What the fuck, Rachel?" Quinn says, and gets a shrug in response.

Santana ignores her. "Which customer?"

"Finn. He usually comes in on Thursdays around two-thirty."

Santana nods. "Regular?"

"Yes. He started coming in last year."

"His name rings a bell. Lemme guess: tall, white, and looks like a brick short of a full load?"

"Santana!"

"Cute, but not my type," continues Santana. "Have fun climbing that tree, Hobbit."

Rachel nods slowly, brow furrowed. "By the way, Santana… I'm fairly certain Quinn didn't let you in."

"She made a copy of my key," interjects Quinn, earning herself a dirty look.

"God, stop riding my tits, Fabray. I'm sick of waiting for my lease to run out." Santana turns to Rachel. "Rach, I was desperate. My roommate is currently fucking the entire cast of Rent, there's no way I could've studied with that noise."

"Fine," sighs Rachel. "Just this once."

Santana grins. "I knew you were my favorite."

"That's a dubious honor."

For some inexplicable reason, Quinn finds herself standing outside the campus gift store after her Friday afternoon Abnormal Psychology lecture.

She makes a sound of displeasure. She's never been heckled about apron pins until now. No one seemed to mind that she didn't have any pins of her own, nor gave people pins.

But now that Marley's around, pin mania seems to have seized the staff. Even Rachel showed up to work with a box of assorted Broadway-related pins she "happened to have lying around"; Marley had been over the moon sifting through the vintage pins.

She doesn't have time for this. She's got a scholarship to maintain and an internship to save up for. Relationships are a waste of her time and energy.

… relationships?

Quinn shakes her head briskly as though it can clear those thoughts away. Her fingers tighten around the strap of her backpack and she steps into the shop.

Marley is already in when Quinn arrives. "Hey, Quinn!" says the other girl brightly.

"Hey," says Quinn awkwardly. "I've got something for you." She fumbles with her purse, pulling a pin badge out of it. "I was near my campus gift shop, and I thought you'd like it."

Marley examines the pin closely. It's got Columbia's crest on it with the words Faculty of Arts written in gold on the bottom.

Quinn interprets her silence as displeasure. "I didn't really have time to go out and get a nicer pin," she stammers.

"I love it," says Marley abruptly. She steps around the counter to throw her arms around a very surprised Quinn. "Thank you. It means a whole lot that you got this 'specially for me."

Quinn, still too surprised to do anything, hugs her back awkwardly. "Uh, you're welcome."

Marley leans back. "But you didn't need to go buy one," she says mock-sternly.

"I don't have any pins at all."

Then Marley is laughing, leaving Quinn utterly befuddled. "I was kidding," she says warmly, patting Quinn's arm. "Really. Thank you, Quinn. I love it more than a duck loves rain."

Quinn sighs in relief. "I'm glad." She elects to ignore the odd turn of phrase.

"Will you pin it on for me, please?"

"Sure." Quinn selects a spot that is (still) vacant, pinching the apron and sliding the safety pin through.

"Perfect!"

Sam chooses this moment to walk through the door. "Marley! And Quinn. Afternoon, ladies."

"Sam! Look at what Quinn got me!"

He does an exaggerated double-take; Quinn silently swears to get him back later for it. "Quinn did? Our Quinn?"

"Yep," says Marley proudly.

"Didn't know you had pins at all, Fabray."

"Shove it, Evans," says Quinn through gritted teeth even as Marley chirps, "She went out and got it especially for me."

"Good for you," says Sam, eyes wide with faux surprise. If looks could kill, Quinn would have murdered him several times over. "Congrats on getting a pin from everyone in the store, that's a record."

"Really?"

"Oh, yeah." Sam grins at them both. "Our Quinn doesn't give pins to just anyone, y'know."

Marley beams at Quinn, unabashed. "Lucky me, then."

Quinn, too embarrassed to protest further, just nods and smiles back.

"Oh, hey, Rachel needs you at the till," says Sam.

"Okay. Later!"

Quinn opens her mouth – only to be interrupted by Sam saying: "I know, I know. Tidy the stockroom, right?"

She narrows her eyes at him. "After all that? It better be clean enough to eat off the floor."

He shrugs. "Worth it."

As if Quinn's life wasn't difficult enough, Marley quickly becomes the best trainee they've ever had. Will pops by to evaluate her training progress and is practically over the moon.

"This is amazing," he marvels, holding up the latte Marley's made for him. "You've even mastered latte art." Will tilts the cup to admire the perfect rosetta nestling inside.

"I had a lot of help," Marley says brightly. To Quinn's surprise, Marley reaches out to sling an arm around Quinn's and pull her in. "Especially from Quinn."

For once, Quinn's answering smile isn't hesitant or shy. "Don't sell yourself short; you're a pretty quick learner, Marley."

Will grins at them. "Fantastic. This is what we love to see." To Marley, he adds: "At this rate, we might have to graduate you from training early. You're gonna be such an asset to our new outlet."

Marley's smile falters. "New outlet?"

"Yeah! Business has been amazing lately – thanks to you two, I'm sure," he directs at Quinn. "Sue's been making plans to open another place in Queens, and I know Marley would be an excellent addition there." Will continues to prattle on about the plans they've been making. Quinn hears none of it.

Very soon, she'll have to get used to not seeing Marley at work. Part of her knows that's an irrational fear but Queens is a long way out, and she's afraid that Marley will suspect something if she makes the trek just to –

– just to what, exactly? To stare at her? To make awkward conversation?

She keeps her pleasant facade plastered on as she suppresses the roil of emotions inside. As far as Quinn is concerned, there's nothing wrong, she's happy for Marley to move on to another place where her talents will be recognized and appreciated, and she will be absolutely fine not having her around.

"Another pin?"

Marley laughs. "I happened on it, and – uh – I thought it was too cute not to get." She holds out her hand. A muscular cartoon coffee pot winks at Quinn, the text surrounding it reading seven days without coffee makes one weak.

Quinn covers her mouth with a hand, but is too late to stop the snort of laughter. "Really?"

"It's hilarious!" Marley points out. "Look, one week. Seven days? Get it?" She looks so excited, Quinn barely suppresses a laugh.

"Unfortunately, I do." Behind Marley, Quinn catches sight of Sam. He grins at her and flashes her a thumbs-up, which goes ignored. "It's pretty cute."

"Do you like it? It's yours." Before she can protest, Marley is already fumbling with the little clasp on the back. "Here, lemme…" She finds a spot near the left strap of Quinn's apron and pins it on neatly. "It looks great," Marley declares, stepping back to admire her handiwork, hands on her hips.

"Um," starts Quinn, touching the burnished metal. "Thanks."

Since unofficially moving in with Quinn and Rachel, Santana has taken to dropping in every morning for her 'back-to-school' caffeine fix. It so happens that Quinn is manning the till when she shows up.

Santana grins. "Hey, bitch," she says, resting her elbows on the counter.

Quinn wordlessly starts making Santana's drink (a black eye). Santana takes it from her, sips, and then sighs deeply. "This tastes like misery," she says. "What's gotten your panties in a twist?"

Quinn throws a plastic stirrer at her.

"Bitch." Santana mutters.

Rachel emerges from the stockroom. "Hello, Santana."

"Berry." Santana turns her attention back to Quinn. "Seriously, is something wrong? Can Auntie Snixx fix it?"

"I appreciate your brand of concern, S, disturbing as it is, but nothing's wrong." She moves behind the coffee machine so Rachel can take over the till.

Santana holds out her coffee. "The coffee never lies."

"What is wrong with you?"

Her best friend sighs. "Look, I gotta go. I'm gonna give you 'til the end of today to untwist those panties out of your ass and tell me what's bothering you. Later, Q. Berry." She swans out of the shop.

Quinn scowls.

"She has a point, you know."

"Not now, Rachel," says Quinn without turning around.

"You haven't been your usual pleasant self for the past few days. Tall caramel macchiato, please." Rachel slides a paper cup across the counter to Quinn, who catches it.

"Like I told Santana, I'm fine." She starts the grinder, filling the portafilter's basket. Quinn tamps the ground coffee with gusto.

"Venti latte, please. We both know that's not true. And a white chocolate ice blended mocha."

Quinn retrieves the jug of milk from the fridge. "Don't you have work to do?"

"I'm perfectly capable of multitasking, as are you." Rachel accepts a twenty from another customer, processes the payment, and beams at them as she bids them a good afternoon, before turning back to Quinn without breaking her stride. "You know, you'll feel better if you talk about it."

She ignores Rachel. "Caramel macchiato for Matt," calls Quinn. A tall boy steps forward; she hands him the drink. "I don't need to talk about anything because there's nothing to talk about."

She can feel Rachel's disapproval. "I suppose."

"Will was really impressed by Marley, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"And you're gonna miss her."

Quinn frowns. "Of course I'm gonna miss her. She's the only one who listens when I talk, and she arranges stock properly."

Sam had this annoyingly smug grin on his face. "You know that's not what I meant, but okay."

Mostly, Quinn hates that he's being so smug, but a part of her hates that he's right. "I don't know anything except that you're an idiot."

He shrugs. "Eh, I'll take it." He slings his messenger bag on his shoulder. "I heard Santana's coming. I'd better go before she gets here."

"Bye," says Quinn, wincing. "I wish you could take me with you."

"Sorry, Q. I would do anything for you; take a bullet, jump in front of a car, whatever, but I wouldn't fight Santana for you." He pats her arm. "Have fun."

Santana shows up, as promised, as Quinn is groaning over her closing checklists. "S'up, bitches," she greets everyone.

Mike pops his head out from under the counter, where he was busy cleaning out the storage shelves. "Hey, Lopez."

"Chang Bunker. Always a pleasure. Where's Eng?" She notices Tina staring at her and her smile widens. "Lovely. Haven't seen y'all in a while. Been busy with math?"

Tina laughs, loud and derisive, then flips her off; Mike sort of shrugs. Santana only seems to revel in the attention, though. "God, I miss working here."

"No, you don't," says Quinn, not looking up from her paperwork. "You just miss insulting us."

"Trudat," admits Santana, "but you make it so easy."

"Come closer so I can stab you," says Quinn easily, clicking her pen menacingly.

"No, you wouldn't. If you killed me, you'd have to scrub this place all over again."

"You're right."

Santana laughs. "So. Fabray! We have unfinished business."

"We don't." Quinn finishes balancing the receipts and bundles them in a bag; at the same time, she directs Tina to clean out the coffee machine, and Mike to mop the floor.

"Repressed cow."

"Pushy-ass bitch."

Santana smacks Quinn's arm. Quinn smacks her back.

"Now, now, children," says Rachel sardonically.

"Berry! Now the gang's all here. Must've missed you, were you standing up?"

"Funny," comments Rachel offhandedly. "Just so you know, I couldn't get her to talk," she adds, nodding at a suddenly outraged Quinn.

Quinn glares at her. "Traitor. I'm gonna schedule your shift on Les Mis' opening night."

Rachel gasps.

Santana cackles. "And that's my cue. Bye, bitches. Come on, Q, you and I are gettin' our drinks on."

"Santana! I need to bank these!" Quinn protests.

"We can totally do that on the way. Now c'mon! It's time for drinks!"

"I have class tomorrow, and so do you! It's Monday, for God's sake!"

"Being a normal college student for once isn't gonna kill you, I promise."

After the initial ferocious protest, Quinn decides to accept her fate. (Plus, Santana picked her favorite bar and she really doesn't want to be banned from the place for murdering her temporary housemate.)

"So, what's really eating you? From one repressed cow to another?"

Quinn grunts. Everything's gone a little fuzzy around the edges after the third cranberry vodka, but she can't bring herself to care. "The new girl."

Santana leans in. "A new girl kinda problem, or a new girl kinda problem?"

"What does that even fuckin' mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean; you go to a fucking Ivy League school, you dense bitch. Either the new girl's got a stick up her ass to rival yours, or you like like her."

"God, you talk like a toddler when you're drunk."

Santana smirks. "If you're insulting me, that means you want to get into her panties. Fuck, Fabby, was that so hard to admit?"

Quinn grunts again. "... Don't know if she feels the same way."

"So? Just shoot your shot. And if she doesn't like you back, she's a trainee and you're a supervisor, I think you could pull a few strings and get her transferred."

"She's definitely getting transferred," says Quinn miserably. "Will said so. He says Sue wants to send her to Queens."

"Well, shit."

"Yeah."

"Like I said, what have you got to lose?"

"Uh, I'm the supervisor? I'm technically her boss. Temporary boss. If she doesn't feel the same way, it's gonna get awkward until she transfers out."

"So far all I'm hearing is a whole lotta excuses," says Santana. "But I know you, and I know the bitch who got out of Bumfuck, Ohio on a scholarship doesn't do excuses."

Quinn finishes her drink and pushes away her empty glass. "I just… she's really nice, and pretty, and cute, and pretty. That doesn't mean I wanna date her, right? Like, just because I'm not straight doesn't mean that I can't have girl friends. Friends that are girls. Friends that are female? Like, you and I are friends."

"We're friends who banged twice," Santana points out.

"That doesn't count because we were drunk."

"No, that doesn't count because you were trying to get over that girl who dumped you over text and I was drunk." Santana sighs. "But you said pretty twice, so I'mma call it and say it's not just feelings of friendship you got for this chick."

Quinn ignores her in favor of calling for another cranberry vodka; Santana adds a glass of water to the order.

"Whose is it?"

"Yours, you lightweight," says Santana. "You're one of those sad drunks, I think you've had enough for the night."

"Fuck off."

Quinn wakes up the next morning with a splitting headache and the taste of death on her tongue. "Fuuuuuck," she groans.

Outside, Santana is nursing a large mug of coffee. "Good morning, bitch," she croaks.

"Fuck you."

"Bless your heart." She doesn't mean the words, Quinn knows; Sam's warned her about Southern phrases and their true meanings.

Quinn focuses her attention on the pot of coffee sitting in the machine. On most days, Quinn takes her coffee with cream and sugar. Her hangover coffee to-go is black, just like how she's feeling.

"I left you Advil on the counter."

Quinn sighs in relief. "San?"

"Yeah?"

"I hate you a little less."

Santana chuckles. "Love you too."

"God, I am so glad I don't have morning classes today," says Quinn, glaring at Santana.

"No self-respecting college kid takes morning classes, anyway. You should be thanking me for salvaging your reputation as a normal human."

Quinn swallows the biting remark with a mouthful of coffee.

"So, about last night…?"

"Don't remember a thing," Quinn lies through her teeth.

"Hilarious."

"S. Listen." Quinn's fingers curl around her mug. "You know I've gone through some serious shit in my life."

Santana nods.

"I appreciate what you're trying to do. Somewhat," she mutters, "but I'm not really in that mental place to be getting into a relationship right now."

"I hear you, but – "

"– leave it, please."

Santana grunts unhappily, but doesn't say anything.

By the time she walks into the shop for her next shift, Quinn's over the hangover and her feelings. It's just a passing infatuation, she tells herself; a fondness for the first decent newbie they've had in ages. And it happens that she's sweet, and funny, and has the biggest heart Quinn's ever seen. One would have to be made of stone not to like Marley.

And so Quinn's perfectly happy to watch Marley go be awesome somewhere else when her training's complete.

She's halfway through tidying and restocking the display case when she hears Marley call her name.

Quinn straightens up, smiling. "Hey."

"Check this out." Marley holds out a small enamel pin.

It's a little coffee cup with writing inside. Quinn squints to read it. "Crema the crop," she reads.

Marley grins at her. "Get it? Cream of the crop. But crema because coffee."

Quinn laughs. "Wow. That's terrible."

"But do you love it?"

"It's pretty funny, yeah."

Marley reaches for Quinn's hand, placing it in her palm and closing Quinn's fingers over it. "It's yours."

"Really? You keep buying all this stuff for me."

"That's why I took this job," says Marley, deadpan. Her serious facade cracks almost immediately after, a giggle escaping her. "I'm kidding. A pin now and then is hardly gonna bankrupt me, Quinn."

"At the rate you give them away, that's a distinct possibility," remarks Quinn, earning herself another giggle.

"Maybe I'm just getting warmed up." Marley's eyes sparkle with mirth. "Maybe I'm actually buttering you up so I get better shifts."

"I have to warn you that it hasn't worked for anyone else." Quinn doesn't really know why she's still engaging in this… banter? Teasing? Or – oh god – flirting. All she knows is that she wants to keep that smile on Marley's face as long as she can because it's directed at her, and it makes her feel warm.

"Maybe they didn't try hard enough," Marley suggests. "You're definitely – I mean, it's definitely worth it. The extra hours, I mean. The extra money." She winces. "Oh god, I'm sorry."

To her horror, Quinn realizes Marley's blushing. And worse still… so is she. "N-no, you don't have to be. I think you're absolutely right."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Quinn impulsively reaches forward to pat Marley's arm. "Now that you mention it, I have a Sunday evening shift no one's willing to take with me for some reason…" she jokes.

"I'll take it," blurts out Marley. "I'd really like that."

"You're sure? Don't you have other plans, or better things to do?"

"No, I'm boring that way. I'd love to take that shift with you. Dead serious," Marley insists.

"Well…" It's impossible not to look into Marley's eyes and be unaffected. Quinn fights to keep her composure, managing to mutter a "if you're sure."

Closing shifts, thinks Quinn, are the biggest hidden secret of her job. Most are turned off by the late hour, the cleaning that has to be done, the strict outlet closing protocol that has to be followed. But to Quinn, it's an opportunity for peace and quiet at the end of the day and to ensure everything is just the way she likes it.

The word likes applies in more ways than one these days, with Marley opting to be scheduled on Quinn's Sunday shift which is proving to be hazardous to Quinn's health.

"Are you walking to the station?"

"Yeah, but I've got to stop by the bank on the way," says Quinn, pulling on her coat.

"Can I walk with you? I mean – I'm going to the subway too, but I don't wanna go alone, y'know, and the bank isn't that far away." Marley makes a face. "Wow. That was smooth," she adds in an undertone, the words clearly not meant for Quinn's ears.

Quinn chuckles, too entertained to pretend she didn't hear. "I'd appreciate the company."

Just like that, Marley's sunny smile is restored. "Cool. Lemme get my hoodie on and we can go."

While Quinn locks up, Marley hovers around her, hands in the kangaroo pocket of her hoodie.

"What are you doing?" Quinn asks, aware of Marley's presence hovering just outside of her personal space.

"I'm your security escort for the evening," Marley informs her.

"I'm flattered." Quinn adjusts her tote bag on her shoulder and starts off down the street. "I'm not sure Will can pay you a little extra overtime for that, though."

"Consider it my good deed for the day." Marley's hands stay tucked in her pockets as she falls instep beside Quinn. "What's a little extra? We're in customer service, after all."

Quinn laughs. "That's generous of you, with us being broke students and all."

"You're broke? No way."

"I'm from Ohio," says Quinn dryly. "There's no way I can afford Columbia without a scholarship."

"You must be a genius, then."

"Hardly. I just wanted out of the Midwest badly enough." Quinn halts at the pedestrian crossing.

"I get that," admits Marley, "I'm a scholarship kid, too."

"That makes us both geniuses?"

Marley laughs and shakes her head. "Nah. I got lucky, s'all. For my application essays, I wrote about being raised in a single-parent family and going to schools 'cause my mom was the lunchlady there. College admission committee ate that stuff up."

"What are you studying at NYU?"

Marley gasps. "How'd you know I go to NYU?"

In answer, Quinn nods at the front of the slate-grey hoodie Marley's wearing which has NYU printed on it in large block capitals.

"Oh."

Quinn can't resist. "You sure you're a genius?"

Marley makes an outraged sound and attempts to elbow a laughing Quinn in the side. "Rude."

"For stating the obvious?"

"For not taking your punishment like a woman."

Quinn laughs harder. "Are you even listening to yourself right now?"

"Don't Ivy League at me. I'm a broke scholarship student providing free security escort services after work."

"I thought you aim to please," Quinn says.

"Yeah, but you look way too amused."

She banks in the cash and walks in the direction of the subway, Marley jogging comically to catch up.

"Y'know, I never pegged you for a scholarship kid."

Quinn arches an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Like, you always seemed so…"

She waits. When the silence stretches a little too long, she gives Marley an encouraging smile.

"... like you grew up never having to worry about meals." Marley mumbles the last bit with her eyes firmly fixed on the pavement.

Quinn hesitates before putting a hand on Marley's shoulder. "I did," she says. "But I got a scholarship because my parents disowned me after I came out to them."

"Oh."

"Yeah." Their rejection still stings, but it's faded to a dull ache now. She has a new family now in Rachel and Sam (and even Santana).

"Quinn?"

"Hmm?"

"Sorry your parents suck."

She laughs. "Thanks."

"But you didn't need them. You're awesome, and it's a shame they couldn't see that."

Quinn can't help herself. Marley is so earnest and sincere, and the look in her eyes creates a small giddy sensation seizing in her chest, and – oh.

This, perhaps, is the proof she needs to know how far she's gone. "Thanks, Marley."

"Anytime."

Sam saunters in, looking tan and fit.

"You look good," says Quinn, deliberately sounding jealous.

He grins. "Thanks. Now that Marley's picking up half my shifts, I've got that much more time to focus on my modelling career." He pulls his apron out of his bag. "Speaking of which, how's Marley?"

"She's good."

Sam narrows his eyes at her. "Just good?"

Quinn glares at him. "What did you want me to say? She's better than you and Rachel combined? That she's better at inventory than me? That she learned how to balance the till in fifteen minutes flat?"

"Nope, that was good enough." He's obviously trying not to laugh. Quinn ignores him. "Hey, noticed you got quite the impressive pin collection going on there." He smacks his chest with the flat of his hand, making them jangle. "Could give me a run for my money."

"There aren't that many."

Sam leans forward to take a closer look. "Some of these are brilliant. Didn't know you had a sense of humor, Q."

He has her trapped. Quinn looks away. "I didn't buy them."

"You didn't hate them, either," he says sweetly.

"Shut up, Sam."

He crosses his arms. "All I'm saying is that if it'd been me giving you these pins, you would've punched me."

"That's because you're an idiot."

"You're the idiot. You like her. Go ask her out, Fabray."

"No, fuck you. Who died and left you in charge of my personal life?"

Sam laughs. "I know you, and therefore I know you're not gonna do anything to make yourself happy. So it's up to me to lend a helping hand."

"That was a rhetorical question, Evans. Maybe if you hadn't flunked English in high school, you would know what that means."

"You can insult me all you want, Quinn. You and I both know that's just a defence mechanism." He pats her shoulder; she slaps his hand away.

"You're an asshole, stop talking to Rachel," she calls as he walks off.

On Sunday, it's just the two of them holding down the fort. Unluckily (or luckily) for Quinn, there aren't that many customers, which leaves Marley plenty of time to chat. Over the course of the afternoon, Quinn quickly learns that Marley has a best friend named Unique and she loves to sing.

Quinn offers up relatively little about herself, content to listen to Marley talk.

"I should teach you how to close up on your own," says Quinn eventually. The hours have flown past as they never did when she was working solo. "I've got a checklist here."

"Cool."

Quinn pats the display case next to the till. "We're supposed to throw out the stuff we didn't sell, but Sue doesn't care if we take them home. Go on and pack some for yourself," says Quinn.

"That's amazing," says Marley.

"Yeah, you say that now, but after we've emptied the case, we've gotta scrub the entire thing, inside and out."

Marley makes a face. "Okay. Less amazing, but still okay." She starts taking out pastries and buns, sorting them into two piles on the counter. "This is what I'm taking," she says with an impish grin, pointing to the pile on the left, "and this is yours."

"Generous of you," says Quinn dryly, noting how the pile designated for her is considerably smaller.

"You're welcome," calls Marley from inside the display case where she's wiping down the corners. A lock of hair comes free of her ponytail, falling into her eyes; Marley blows it away to no avail.

"If I were you, I'd pack that haul away properly. I wouldn't want disinfectant spray to accidentally get on it while I clean the counters…"

There's a squeak from inside the display case. "You wouldn't!"

"Go box up your food, Rose."

Marley extracts herself from the case, wearing a pout. Quinn does her best to pretend she doesn't notice, until that pout is replaced by a wide smile –

Marley darts forward, scooping up a dab of cream from a pastry and swiping it on Quinn's face. "Now that was a real accident," says Marley, grinning at her, "and not your fake disinfectant spraying."

Quinn gasps in outrage. "Accident? Excuse you!" And her hand darts out, quick as a flash, adding a swipe of cream to Marley's cheek.

Marley squeals. "Quinn!"

"You started it!" Quinn laughs.

Much, much later that night, after they've finally closed up and walked to the subway together, Quinn realizes that she can't remember the last time she's laughed so much, or been so happy.

She isn't sure what to make of it. A part of her wants to embrace that feeling, to soak up the sunshine that is Marley's presence in her life. Another part wants to run.

But yet another, very small, part of her wants more.

Santana walks in, takes one look, and sighs. "Okay, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," says Quinn automatically.

Santana grunts. "Yeah? Because you look like someone's given the stick up your ass a good stir."

Quinn makes a noise of disgust.

"You talked to Marley yet?"

"No…"

"Why?"

"It's complicated, S," grumbles Quinn.

"No, it is not," snaps Santana. "By all accounts she's a real one, and she sounds like she's really into you. You like her, and she likes you. It's not hard."

Quinn snorts. "We had this conversation already."

"Yeah, but I don't see shit happening. Honestly, the only skinny here should be skinny latte not skinny love."

"Don't I get a say in – I don't know – my own feelings?"

"Not if you're an Olympic gold medalist in denial," replies Santana bluntly.

"I'm not in denial."

"Then?"

"It's just… I don't know what I'm doing," Quinn mumbles.

"Just walk up to her and say, hey Marley, I think you're the best thing since sliced bread and I want to be all up in your lady business. How 'bout it?"

Quinn goes beet red. Mike, passing by, gives them both a look.

"Santana!"

"If you can do better, don't let me stop you," Santana tosses over her shoulder as she makes her exit.

On a Saturday afternoon, Will walks in with a big smile. "Hey, guys!"

"Hi, Will."

He beams at Marley. "Marley! Exactly the girl I want to see. How're you doing?"

"Great."

"Wonderful." He puts his hands together excitedly. "Speaking of which, I need to talk to you. Can I steal you away for a sec?"

"Sure?" She follows him into the back room.

Quinn watches them go miserably.

It's all kinds of fucked up, Quinn knows that. She also knows that she hasn't got the time to dwell on it.

Literally no time; she's holed up in their tiny storeroom so Quinn can get a grip on herself before going back on the floor. They'll be looking for her soon because her friends are idiots.

"Quinn? Are you in here?"

She shouldn't have been surprised that Marley would be the one sent to find her. Sam's not just a regular idiot, but an idiot with a romantic streak a mile wide. Sending Marley as an excuse to let them talk in private is exactly what Sam would do.

What's surprising is Sam getting Marley to look for her when she's been avoiding Quinn all week.

"Yeah," she calls.

The storeroom is tiny, and the door opens inwards. It made design sense because nobody would ever be inside for a prolonged period of time. But what it means is that Marley nearly opens the door in Quinn's face. She jerks back in surprise, stumbling back against some sacks; Marley, equally surprised, darts forward to grab her.

They end up pressed together. The door adds further insult to injury by swiping at Marley as it swings closed, making her squeak and pushing them even closer together.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah. I'm fine. You?"

Quinn smiles. "I'm good."

The tension is already suffocating. She can't think about anything about the girl in front of her.

"You're sure?"

Quinn forces a smile on her face. "Yeah. Just… left my phone in here."

Marley narrows her eyes, but lets it go. "Oh, okay. I thought you were hiding in here or something."

"Did you need me for something?" Quinn quickly changes the subject.

"No, I just wanted to check on you." Marley looks worried. "You disappeared after Will and I were done talking."

"Yeah, well…" Quinn forces a smile. "Doesn't take a genius to guess what he wanted. Especially not a scholarship genius," she adds, getting a smile from Marley. "You're transferring, right?"

Marley sighs, smile gone. "Yeah. Not Queens though, it's too much of a commute for me. West Village is closer to school."

"Congrats."

"Thanks." Marley's blue gaze sharpens. "I'm also kinda getting promoted to assistant supervisor. Sorta."

"That's amazing."

"Will said it's something they don't normally do, but he thinks it's well-deserved based on the feedback you gave him."

Quinn looks away. "I thought employee reviews are supposed to be confidential."

Marley blushes. "You won't tell, right?"

"I won't," she assures Marley, who grins. For a moment, it's almost like nothing's changed.

"When are you starting?"

Marley sighs suddenly, the sound filling the silence. "Next week."

"Oh."

"But I've gotta go and meet the team there now." She tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Will thinks it's a good idea for me to try and get settled in ASAP, with me being trainee assistant supervisor and all."

"I'm happy for you," says Quinn, meaning it.

"I want us to part on good terms, Quinn. I really enjoyed my time here with you, with Sam and everyone and I… I'll miss it. You're practically my best friend."

"You've only known me for a couple of months."

"I don't need to taste every drop of seawater to know the ocean's salty."

Quinn stares. Marley blushes. "That's something my mom always says," says Marley defensively.

"Oh."

"But I thought we – " Marley starts, and doesn't finish.

"What?"

She shakes her head. "Nothing."

In hindsight, she should've seen it coming because her friends are idiots. But honestly, Quinn's been stretched thin these days. When she's not juggling school and her scholarship requirements, she's going to work to stare at Marley without getting caught.

So she just sighs when she sees the motley crew assembled in her apartment. "What's this supposed to be? An intervention?"

"Uh, yeah?"

"Quinn, we just want you to be happy," says Rachel.

Quinn's gaze sweeps over the people in the room. "And bringing everyone to this intervention is supposed to accomplish that?"

"Ever heard the phrase "it takes a village"? Well, getting you two into gear takes a whole coffeeshop," says Sam. Mike and Tina take turns to fistbump him.

"Tell her how you feel!" says Rachel. "It's cutting it a little close, but it's not too late."

"It kinda is," says Quinn. "She's leaving, and once she's in the other outlet, it's out of sight, out of mind."

Santana throws up her hands. "God."

"I don't think God can help," says Rachel tersely.

"Look, maybe I like her, but how do you know she likes girls?" Quinn demands.

"We had a nice conversation about LGBTQ+ rights," says Tina serenely. "Right after she complimented me on my flag collection."

"Straight allies are a thing."

Santana scoffs. "Are you even listening to yourself right now, dude?"

"Stop calling me dude, you're not ghetto. Your parents are doctors, and you grew up in a fucking penthouse in Astoria."

Santana grins, all teeth, and it reminds Quinn of a shark. Santana acts like she knows she's won, and Quinn hates it. "She looks at you like you hung the moon, Q. If that's not her being hopelessly in like with your oblivious ass, I'll do all the laundry for a week."

"Okay, so maybe she might like me back," allows Quinn. Santana never offers to do chores. "But newsflash! I'm fairly sure she thinks I'm not interested."

Sam puts a hand on her shoulder. "Seems like it's a win-win situation. She's leaving next week, right? So just go tell her before she leaves. If she likes you back, then boom! Magic." He imitates an explosion noise, fluttering his fingers at her. "But if she doesn't –"

"And she damn well does!" calls Santana.

"– then she goes off to West Village while you stay here. No awkwardness."

Quinn purses her lips. It's tempting.

"Quinn, I know you can do this," says Rachel as their friends nod.

She sighs. "Fine."

It is very, very hard to focus on work and on being a normal functional human being. Between the knowing looks her friends keep shooting at her and the looks she is trying not to shoot at Marley, Quinn doesn't know how she's keeping it all together.

But she said she'd try, so… here goes.

"Hey."

"Hey!" Marley puts down the sleeve of paper cups she's holding, dusting off her apron hastily. "What's up? I haven't finished organizing the cups yet, it's a lot worse than we thought it would be…"

"It's not that," Quinn assures her. "I was wondering if I could talk to you?"

"Yeah, okay?" There's a confused expression on her face. "Aren't we talking now, though?"

"I, um, got you a pin." The silver stylized moka pot, steam curling out of it, has Espresso-ly for you written on a silver banner unfurled on the bottom. Quinn picked it from the gift store near her apartment because it was cute, the pun was terrible, and she knew Marley would love it. "In celebration of your – uh…"

Marley gasps. "I love it!"

"I'm glad." Quinn doesn't know what to do with her hands, so she clasps them in front of her in the classic customer service pose. "I… good luck at the new place."

"Thanks." To Quinn's surprise, Marley doesn't ask Quinn to add the pin to her apron. "Quinn, can I ask you something?"

"Yeah?"

"I was hoping that me going to West Village doesn't mean we won't hang out anymore." Perhaps Quinn's reading into this a little too much, but it seems like she pauses for a beat. "We'll still be friends?"

This is her perfect opportunity. It is so easy for Quinn to tell her that yes, they'll be friends, more than friends maybe.

But Quinn… doesn't.

"We'll still be friends," she says around the lump in her throat.

The light in Marley's eyes dims a little. "Great. Friends."

Quinn has to give her friends credit: they constantly annoy her, and they don't know what personal space is, but they know well enough to leave her alone to mope.

Sam is the first one to break, of course.

"Don't say it." Quinn warns him when he approaches her.

Sam holds his hands up in front of him. "I wasn't going to say anything."

"I was." Santana scowls at her. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Quinn sighs. "I know."

Santana squints at her. "... you know what? Forget it. It's like kicking a sad puppy."

It's really hard to move on from something that never was. That damned apron that Quinn used to look forward to wearing is now a millstone around her neck, each glittering pin carrying a memory that hurts her.

She's a fool. And she hopes she isn't too late.

"Quinn? You alright?"

"I have to go," she says jerkily. "Cover for me." She fumbles off her apron and runs out.

Distantly, she hears Sam whooping.

"Hi, welcome to – Quinn!"

"Marley."

Marley looks worried. "What're you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be working right now? Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing's wrong. I – can we talk? In private?"

"Yeah, sure." Marley leads the way. "How'd you know I'd be working today?"

Quinn flushes. "I asked a friend for a favor." Sam had been a pain about it, but he'd texted Mercedes and she had come through.

The stockroom at the West Village outlet is a little roomier than theirs. Quinn fidgets with the hem of her shirt as the weight of what she's done starts to sink in.

She walked out on a shift, putting Sam in charge. She can probably kiss her job goodbye, which means she'll have major problems affording that summer internship.

And Quinn finds that she can't bring herself to care.

"What's wrong, Quinn?"

Marley's soft voice shocks her out of her thoughts. "I'm sorry," comes out in a rush.

"What…?"

"I'm sorry for… everything," says Quinn, frustrated by the lack of a better word. "You were right; we had something between us. I do like you, but I'm an idiot, and I was too scared to tell you." Once she starts talking, she finds that she can't stop. "You're ridiculously cheerful all the time. And upbeat, and do all these cute little weird things. You're literally a human golden retriever puppy. You do all these things that should annoy me, but I find everything about you cute and adorable and it makes me want to kiss you."

Marley looks shocked but says nothing.

"I'd understand if you don't want to speak to me again. God, I had my chance that day – so many chances – and I chickened out. I… I'm sorry."

"Quinn?"

Quinn stops talking.

Then Marley moves forward, just an inch. Her face close enough to Quinn's that she can just lean forward and –

Quinn knows exactly what she wants; it's practically being offered to her on a silver platter right this minute. But she's too scared to reach out and take it.

She opens her mouth. "Marley…"

Marley's eyes flick upwards when she hears her name. Quinn's gaze is drawn to the movement of Marley's lips.

"Hmm?"

Objectively, Quinn knows what's about to happen. "I…" Pause. She licks dry lips.

Marley's lips part again, hot breath ghosting over Quinn's skin. It's too close. And yet she holds herself steady, inches away. Close enough to see the barely-there freckles on Marley's face.

She breathes. That's all she's capable of. Quinn's tired of denying herself things she wants. Because – Marley is absolutely perfect, and she just wants –

She moves in for the kiss.

Her first impression is of warmth. Quinn's insides are consumed in it, the frantic hammering of her own heart loud enough to drown everything else out.

For a single, terrifying moment, Marley doesn't kiss her back.

Then she's responding, turning her head so they fit together, and –

Quinn lets a soft hum escape as she presses closer. Her hand tentatively moves to rest on Marley's shoulder, anchoring herself in this kiss. Marley's response is this tiny, needy whine, and Quinn is being kissed with greater fervor than before.

"Hey!"

The banging of the storeroom door rudely jolts them out of the kiss, Quinn stumbling backwards a pace. "Hey!" repeats the voice outside. "Why's this door locked? That's against company policy!"

Marley clears her throat. "Give me a minute, Kitty!" she yells.

"Afternoon tourist rush is happening early," Kitty yells back. "We can't handle them all on our own. I left Jake crying into a skinny latte. You're supposed to be an assistant supervisor, Rose, so assist!" Footsteps stomp away.

Kitty's departure leaves a vacuum. Marley looks like a mess; pink in the face, her eyes glazed, and lips moist and reddened. Quinn knows she doesn't look much better.

"Um… I think you should get back to work," says Quinn quietly.

"Yeah." She sounds like she's out of breath.

Quinn is about to say more, but is distracted when Marley's tongue darts out to lick her lips. "I, uh, I liked that," admits Marley, blushing deeper.

It's the biggest understatement to describe the past few minutes, but kissing Marley has fried most of Quinn's brain. "Me too."

Marley gives her this small smile, the merest uptick of her lips. It makes Quinn smile back. "Maybe we could talk later? After my shift?"

Quinn finds herself nodding. "Yeah. Definitely. Later."

"Cool. I get off at five." Marley gives her another sweet smile. She smooths down the front of her apron, runs her hands over her hair, then darts forward to kiss Quinn on the cheek. "I'm really, really glad you came," she says sincerely. While Quinn is busy gaping at her, she turns around and leaves.

There's a part of Quinn that wants to hide in the storeroom until closing time. But she eventually musters enough courage to slink out – Kitty glaring daggers at her the entire time – and head back to her own outlet.

Her mind is buzzing on a constant loop during the entire subway ride.

Back at work, Sam and Rachel are doing their best to pretend to be working, but Quinn can see the smiles they're hiding behind the coffee machine (Sam) and the till (Rachel).

Surprisingly, she can't bring herself to care.

"So?"

"We're gonna talk later," says Quinn nonchalantly. Her apron's been folded neatly and left to one side; she puts it back on. Her gaze lingers on the shiny row of pins Marley gifted her and she smiles.

"Did you kiss her?"

"I hope you did," chimes in Rachel. "Grand romantic gestures are rather effective in winning someone over."

Quinn ignores their chatter – and the not-so-subtle high-fives they exchange behind her back. She's too busy counting down the minutes until five o'clock.

She leaves early (another perk of being supervisor) ostensibly to give herself more time to think over what she's going to say. In reality, however, Quinn spends the entire time alternatively freaking out, imagining entire scenarios where Marley comes up with a reason for rejecting her, or thinking about the kiss.

When Quinn eventually reaches the West Village outlet ten minutes early, she finds Marley already standing outside.

"Oh, Jesus," says Quinn, and bites her tongue for the blasphemy immediately after.

"It's Marley," Marley says, smiling at her.

"Did you just…?"

Marley flushes. "Sorry. Sorry, I just… you looked so awkward, and I thought I'd break the tension. Guess that didn't go as planned."

Quinn just stares at her, lost for words. It's the combination of mild panic and embarrassment on Marley's face that eventually triggers a snort of laughter out of her.

"You…" Marley splutters, and it sets Quinn off.

For some reason, Quinn's laughter makes Marley laugh too, after which they continue to set each other off.

It takes time for them both to calm down, smiling shyly at each other. "So…"

Marley stares at Quinn in confusion. Quinn falters under those penetrating blue eyes. "I, um, wanted to talk about us."

Marley bursts into laughter again, great wheezing gasps that irritate Quinn.

"What's so funny?"

"You wanna talk about us? Quinn, we kissed. Or at least – I kissed you, and you kissed me back."

"Yes." Quinn knows she's pouting, but really, talking about serious things isn't exactly the easiest for her, and Marley is just laughing.

A soft hand cupping Quinn's cheek instantly gets her attention. "I'm sorry I laughed," says Marley, her expression solemn. She brushes Quinn's pout away with the pad of her thumb; Quinn does her best not to react when she withdraws her hand. "Okay. So we should talk."

"Yeah," says Quinn, who is very distracted by Marley's mouth. She wants to take the words directly from between those soft pink lips. She clears her throat, doing her best to focus on the other girl's face. "I wanted to talk about what this means for us."

"Are you trying to ask me if we're dating?" Marley asks seriously – lips twitching as though she's holding back laughter.

Quinn blushes. "I didn't want to assume anything."

Marley nods. "I like you, Quinn," she says solemnly. "I'd like to keep seeing you outside of work. I'd like to take you on dates and hold your hand and keep kissing you."

"Okay." She kind of hates that she's unable to string a coherent sentence together. Santana was right: she may be an English major, and she might be attending an Ivy League college, but she was downright dumb when it came to Marley. "I'm glad."

"I was starting to think you weren't interested in me, you know," huffs Marley playfully. "I must've dropped a million hints."

Quinn shuffles uncomfortably. "Sorry. I've been told I can be pretty oblivious when it comes to that."

"Oh, is that what we're calling your denial now?"

Quinn winces. "I know I have a lot to make up for. If you'll let me," she adds hastily.

Marley laughs. "I wanna say yes, but I mean… everything came up roses in the end."

There are quite a number of responses that spring to mind, but Quinn chooses to say nothing to that. "Okay."

Marley smiles at her.