Author's Notes: Thanks to Mike Ownby for going through this chapter with a fine-toothed comb, making sure every word in this was fully justified (and not just author laziness), and for making sure life goes on.

I have a ton of notes for this, and they can be found on my Tumblr, yumi-michiyo.

Quinn wakes to the sound of her alarm. She scrunches up her eyes, rubbing at her face, grimacing at how greasy her skin feels. The sun is already out despite the early hour. Quinn doesn't spare it a glance, turning over to poke Marley in the ribs. "Wake up."

Marley grunts in displeasure. "Good morning to you, too," she mumbles into her pillow, squirming out of reach of Quinn. Further poking only makes her pull it over her head fully.

Despite her own grumpiness, Quinn chuckles at Marley. "Mornings are never good, but here we are." She disappears into the bathroom to wash up.

When she emerges, it's to Marley sitting on the edge of the bed, still hugging her pillow, expression disgruntled; it relaxes when she spots Quinn. "Now it's a good morning," she says, voice still croaky with sleep.

It's far too early for her body to react to Marley's compliments (which come often enough for her to be used to them), yet Quinn feels her cheeks heat up as she rolls her eyes. "Go get dressed," she says, neatly dodging Marley's not-so-covert attempt to hug her. "Your mom will freak if we're late."

"No, she won't," Marley calls after her.

"Then I will." Quinn laughs at Marley's expression. "You try this every morning. Eventually you'll learn that it's not gonna work."

"Persistence has its own rewards," says Marley, reaching for Quinn again.

Despite the early hour, Quinn puts on Florence + the Machine, and they sing along. Quinn doesn't pay any attention to the world outside, but she can't help but notice the way Marley slowly begins to retreat into herself as time passes.

She has never paid attention to Marley's neighborhood both of the times she's come here; Quinn was nervous about the trip the first time, and focused on being unwilling to say goodbye the second. Even now, all of her attention is on Marley rather than what's going on outside.

"Well, here we are." Marley parks in the street. "Ignore the mess."

She frowns. "What mess?" asks Quinn as she follows Marley inside.

Marley doesn't reply. "Mom? We're here," she calls into the house.

"Kitchen, dear!"

The hallway is narrow, the paint peeling. The carpet underfoot is dingy and spotted. The Roses aren't rich, and the house looks like it; but there is no shortage of framed photos on the wall – even what looks like a macaroni painting – that make it a home. It feels warm and lived-in. Quinn takes an instant liking to it.

Marley still looks tense. Quinn puts a hand on her shoulder and squeezes. "I like your house," she says.

"It's not as nice as yours."

"Your macaroni painting makes it look like a million bucks."

Marley elbows her, but she does muster a smile for Quinn. "You can admire the art later. C'mon, let's go find my mom."

They turn left at the end of the hallway into the surprisingly large kitchen. Millie is nursing a cup of coffee at the large table dominating the space. "Sweetheart!"

"Morning, Mom," says Marley. She kisses her mom on the cheek. "You've already met Quinn."

But Millie has already let go of Marley and swept Quinn into a hug. "I'm hardly gonna forget such a pretty, well-mannered girl," she quips, releasing Quinn with a kiss on her cheek. "I can't thank you enough for comin' to lend a hand, dear. The Smith kids, bless 'em, have their annual family barbecue and far be it from me to deprive 'em of it."

"It's no trouble at all, Mrs Rose."

"It's Millie, please. We can't be so formal with how much my Marley adores you; why, whenever she called, she was fairly gushin' about how wonderful you are."

"Mom!"

Quinn smiles, amused by Marley's embarrassment. "You adore me, huh?" she says quietly to the other girl when they're fetching aprons out of the hall closet.

Marley goes pink. "Not that much right now," she retorts, and hipchecks Quinn on their way back into the kitchen.

Once the (in)formalities are done, Millie is all business. "Right, ladies; today's menu is lemon-an'-dill salmon salad, grilled chicken skewers, an' butter pecan cupcakes with salted caramel buttercream."

Quinn blinks; she wasn't expecting such an elaborate order, especially for their small town where most people's idea of exotic food is the neighborhood Asian takeout. Idly, she wonders who would order a menu like that.

"Quinn, dear, are you comfortable with usin' a knife?"

Quinn nods; Millie smiles warmly at her.

"Wonderful. Can I get you to mince the garlic and ginger for the skewers to start with, then cut up the other vegetables? Marl, the salmon for the salad needs to be baked first, please."

Marley bustles off immediately; Quinn glances around, a little nervous, until Millie puts a hand on the small of her back and gently steers her towards a cutting board and knife in the corner of the kitchen. "Marley knows the recipes by heart, bless her, so this is for you." Millie unfolds three pieces of notepad paper and lays them flat in front of her. "In case you're done early, we're both busy, an' you wanna know what needs to be done next. Now, go wash your hands, dear, and I'll fetch you the garlic an' ginger to start with."

"That's not necessary…" begins Quinn, but cuts herself off when Millie holds up a hand.

"It wasn't necessary for you to come help me an' Marl, either," says the older woman firmly, her stubborn expression identical to Marley's. "Now, git."

Quinn scurries away. She catches sight of Marley hiding a smirk as she sprinkles salt over the salmon fillets, so she accidentally-on-purpose bumps into Marley on her way back. Marley responds to her angelic smile by sticking her tongue out.

There is a good amount of garlic and ginger waiting for her at her workstation when she gets back. Quinn gets to work on the garlic first. She considers herself fairly competent in the kitchen, thanks to her mother's ideas of what life skills a young lady should have; but peeling the garlic takes a while, even with her experience. Quinn glances at the recipe; it calls for both the garlic and ginger to be minced finely, so she runs her knife through the garlic a few times until she's satisfied. Millie has left a large bowl, which she presumes is for the marinade. Quinn scrapes the garlic inside before she starts on the ginger.

"How're you holding up?"

Marley is smiling at her. She has hair plastered to her forehead despite the messy bun most of it is still in.

"I'm good so far." Quinn checks the recipe again. "Do you promise to come save me if I need it?"

Marley laughs. "Quinn, you definitely don't need saving. I've seen you run Cheerios practices; someone as organized as you isn't gonna be defeated by mere vegetables." She deposits bell peppers, onions, and cilantro on the newly-cleared workstation. "Anyway, I just came to deliver this. Save you the trouble of climbing over me to get them."

"Lovely."

She gets a giggle in return, which is very distracting. "I like the high pony," says Marley. She gives it a flick. "Very professional."

"Thanks? I think." Quinn watches her, occasionally darting a glance to Millie, who is somehow managing to sift flour, measure out milk, and keep an eye on a whirring industrial mixer at the same time. "Don't you have work to do?"

"I'm supervising," Marley says with a grin.

"No, you're being distracting. Shoo."

But Marley's playful mood is indefatigable. She only tosses a last smirk over her shoulder as she returns to her corner of the kitchen.

Quinn watches mother and daughter as she works. Both work together like a well-oiled machine, expertly mashing salmon and assembling skewers like they're in a professional kitchen. They have the same mannerisms; the same absent look of concentration, the same flick of the head to brush away errant hairs.

But in Quinn's wholly biased opinion, Marley is far more captivating than her mother. Watching her make frosting for the cupcakes – and getting a generous amount on herself in the process – is somehow endearing to Quinn. She looks happy. Most of all, she looks comfortable. Like she's in her element.

If she didn't think she was already in love with Marley, this might have been the final push she needed.

Quinn breathes a sigh of relief as she finishes icing the last cupcake and packs it in its foil tray. She's acquired a newfound respect for caterers. Millie runs a tight ship; not a single minute was spent idle in the kitchen, and every bit of food is perfect, despite the fact she's exhausted.

"All that's left to do now is delivery," says Millie, drying her hands on her apron. "The address is on the fridge, sweetheart," she directs at Marley.

"Sure, mom."

"I'll go with you," says Quinn to Marley.

"Quinn, dear, you must be tired."

She is, but she's a Fabray and a former Cheerio. Quinn musters her most winning smile for Millie. "I'm not that tired, Millie. I don't mind helping."

"If you're certain…" Millie claps her hands together. "I'll whip us up some lunch, then."

"Mom, you don't need to," Marley protests.

"Hush. You know we've churned out more in one mornin' than that; lunch for three is nothin' for your ol' mom." Millie winks conspiratorially at Quinn; Marley groans. "Go on, then. I'll have it on the table by the time you gals get back."

And she is off again, rustling through the fridge with an energy that amazes Quinn. She doesn't have time to stare, however, when Marley grabs her hand. "C'mon, I'll show you how we pack the trays for delivery."

"You really didn't need to volunteer," says Marley as they stack foil trays in plastic crates for the journey. "It's not like I haven't run deliveries on my own before, and you're not used to all this." She waves at the food.

"I might as well help out; I've got nothing better to do and these trays are heavy. I mean, being an athlete and all…" Quinn trails off, laughing when Marley aims a half-hearted kick at her shin. "I thought you adored me," she protests.

"I'm starting to change my mind."

It makes Quinn laugh harder.

Quinn's still laughing when she gets into the car, so she is caught off-guard when Marley leans over the center console and kisses her.

"The most effective way to get you to shut up," says Marley smugly.

"Idiot."

"Mmm." Marley glances at the address. "I don't recognize this place. No wonder Mom broke out the fancy stuff; she got a new customer."

"Do you have regular customers?" Quinn asks, intrigued.

"Yep. Most of them order just snack foods; buffalo wings, doughnuts. You name it. It's not every day Mom makes her fancier recipes, let alone a full menu like this." Marley pulls out onto the road. "It's usually when she wants to show new customers what she can do."

"Oh." Quinn vaguely remembers her mother ordering catering whenever she threw parties, usually for the local HOA or one of her social clubs. She tries to remember when the last one was and comes up blank. "My mom hasn't thrown parties in a while, but if she ever needs catering done, I'll ask her to give your mom a call."

"Thanks for the free advertisement. This is exactly why I'm with you," remarks Marley, and laughs when Quinn responds with an undignified snort.

They turn down a vaguely familiar street, and Quinn's stomach lurches. "Wait, what's the address we're delivering to?"

"720 Westbrook Drive."

She goes cold. "Oh shit. That's Santana's house."

The double-take that Marley executes would be comical if Quinn wasn't worrying that she'd broken her neck. "What?"

"Yeah. Brittany and I have been here a few times for parties and sleepovers."

Marley glances out the window at the large houses. "I didn't know her family was rich."

"Don't let the whole Lima Heights adjacent act fool you," says Quinn. "Her dad's the chief of general surgery at Lima Memorial."

"Okay, wow." Marley makes a face, then laughs. "She's really something, isn't she?"

"That's a word for it," grumbles Quinn as the car slows down outside a familiar building. She smooths down her hair, brushes off the front of her T-shirt, and squares her shoulders. It's unlikely that Santana was the one who ordered the food, and even more unlikely that she knows who she ordered it from. There's also a chance that Santana won't be home today.

Marley catches her wrist before she can climb out of the car. "Hey," says Marley softly, "you don't have to come with me, y'know. It's Santana's house and all… I understand."

She does know – that she doesn't need to do this, and that Marley will understand if she backs out now. But she has nothing to hide; nothing to be ashamed of. She's no longer in high school, and there's no hierarchy to uphold, no image to preserve. Quinn shakes her head. "I'm not ashamed of any of this," she tells Marley, smiling at her, nodding at their joined hands.

If there was an invisible test, she's passed it. Marley's smile starts small, then grows fonder and more beautiful. She leans forward, lips brushing Quinn's forehead.

Maribel Lopez opens the door, beaming widely. "Quinn! What a wonderful surprise! Oh, are you delivering my catering?" she asks on catching sight of what Quinn's carrying. "I didn't know you'd found a summer job so quickly."

"Just helping out a friend, Mrs Lopez." She nods at Marley, who is coming up the walk with another plastic crate. "That's Millie Rose's daughter, Marley. She's in Glee club with Santana and me."

"Hi, Mrs Lopez," says Marley, flashing her a smile. "It's nice to meet you."

The older woman waves her off. "Come in, come in. There's plenty of time for chitchat later. Those look heavy, let me show you where to put them."

"I think it's absolutely lovely that you're not being idle this summer," says Maribel as she walks through the house, the two girls trailing after her. "All our Santana wants to do is lounge by the pool all day. Maybe you should get her to help out; God knows she could use the working experience. Manuel and I spoiled her rotten."

The pool looks exactly as Quinn remembers it, except for the addition of a large number of older people milling around and talking. Maribel leads the way to the large empty tables set up at the end of the garden. Quinn sets the plastic crate in her arms on the grass and starts heaving foil trays out. She smiles when she catches Marley trying not to stare at their surroundings. "One day, you'll buy your mom a house on Millionaire's Row," she says, nudging Marley.

Marley is already flushed from the heat and the exertion, but she goes a deeper shade and stutters an inaudible response, much to Quinn's amusement.

"Holy shit."

A familiar voice gives Quinn pause. She stands up, takes a deep breath, and turns around.

The look on Santana's face is priceless. Quinn wishes she had a camera to capture it with.

"Santana, mija, language. But you do have perfect timing. Can you help Quinn with the food? Your Tia Marissa is calling me and you know she doesn't like to be kept waiting." And Maribel bustles off to the other end of the garden, leaving Quinn and Santana in a Mexican standoff.

Santana pushes her sunglasses up. "Fabby, is that really you? And with Lunchlady Jr? Holy shit. Are you two catering my mom's garden party?"

"That's the worst nickname for me you've ever come up with," mutters Quinn. "That's saying a lot, since it's you."

Santana ignores her. "I'm naturally creative. I love it, it has a ring, it's your name now. But can we talk about how you're working for Lunchlady Sr? Marrying into the family business, I like it."

Quinn's eyes narrow. "One more word, Lopez, and I will shank you."

"You've got no power over me here, Fabby." She eyes the foil trays. "Those smell good. My mom didn't tell me she'd ordered catering."

"There's more in the car if you feel like helping," says Quinn, grabbing the empty plastic crate. "Your mom said it would be a good idea if you got a summer job."

Santana cackles. "Not on your life." She follows them out, however. "Wow, Fabby. You look good. Scratch that, you're practically glowing." She picks at Quinn's shirt sleeve; Quinn smacks her hand away. "What did I tell you about the healing power of lady kisses? God, you owe me big for making you ask her in the first place."

Quinn scowls. She does, however, appreciate the quick glance Santana throws at her house as she makes sure they are truly alone. "God, you've been spending too much time with Rachel, you're starting to sound like her. I don't know about any healing powers, especially coming from you; you're more of a poster child for STDs than lesbians."

"Like how you're a walking billboard for the joys of unprotected sex?"

"Hey, don't talk to her like that."

The interruption in their usual banter is so unexpected, they both stop glaring at each other and turn to Marley, shocked. After about a minute of silence, Santana bursts into laughter. "God, Rose, are you actually shaking? You've got balls." She turns to Quinn. "Looks like the rubbing off goes both ways."

"You're such a bitch, Lezpez." Quinn loops an arm around Marley's, partly to put herself between Marley and Santana, but mostly because she is impressed and relieved by Marley's interruption. "Thanks again for the Cedar Point passes. We thought of you when we rode the coasters."

"Fuck you," says Santana, equally pleasant. "Now unload the rest of those crates and get out of my house. You," she points at Quinn, "me, Breadstix. Text me once you get your face out of your lady's lady business."

Marley squeaks indignantly. Quinn, still smiling, lets go of Marley, picks up the plastic crate, and slams the corner into Santana, making her squawk. "Oops. Sorry, that's slippery." She readjusts her grip on the crate. "Sure, I'll text you. Remember to wash your hands before you show up, alright? Nobody needs to know where – or in who – those fingers have been."

Santana just stares. Quinn ignores her, stacking the empty plastic crate in the car trunk, hauling another packed crate out of the car and starting off back into the house. She is distantly aware of Marley doing the same.

Just as she reaches the house, she hears cursing in Spanish. Quinn cackles.

Maribel adds a generous tip to Marley's fee on the condition they each have a glass of Maribel's fresh lemonade for the road. Marley puts up a token protest, but she caves when Quinn subtly elbows her and accepts the kind offer on their behalf.

"Come on, we've earned this," says Quinn. She clinks her glass to Marley's.

Marley sighs, but smiles. "This is highly unprofessional."

"We might not always get customers this nice, so we should make the best of it."

"We?" asks Marley, smiling into her lemonade.

"I need all the money I can get. Ivy League tuition isn't cheap."

Marley laughs. "Sorry."

"What are you apologizing for?"

"I shouldn't have gotten between you and Santana. She's your friend, but I honestly thought you were gonna kill each other back there; you were glaring daggers at each other."

Quinn stares at her for a second, before she starts laughing. "You've got nothing to be sorry for. Yeah, we're bitches,but that's just how Santana and I work. We talk a lot of trash but I really care about her, and she might tolerate me. But… thanks," she adds softly. "No one's ever stood up for me like that before."

Marley smiles at her. Impulsively, Quinn wraps an arm around her waist in a sort of side-hug – the most public display of affection she will show in Lima.

"Break it up, don't make me hose you two down."

Quinn sighs. Santana has impeccable timing when it comes to making Quinn's life hell.

"Rose," says Santana, "can I borrow your girl for a minute? Thanks," she says, dragging Quinn away without waiting for an answer.

"I'm impressed," says Quinn dryly, "you're using her name."

"She's earned it," replies Santana. "Anyway, I was right. Say it."

"Right about what?"

"About you two bumping uglies."

Quinn makes a scandalized sound. "We are not – " she hisses, darting a panicked glance in Marley's direction, but doesn't finish her sentence when Santana holds a hand up.

"Yeah, yeah," she says. "I don't need the explicit deets right now. But you and Rose, Fabby."

"... Yeah." She knows exactly what Santana is trying to say; it's the difference between the 'sex is not a relationship' song-and-dance Santana and Brittany pulled through sophomore and junior years of high school, and being an actual same-sex couple in Lima, heads held high and hands firmly clasped together under the public's disapproving gaze.

Santana gives her a brief smile. "You're happy."

This time, she smiles. "Yeah."

"She fucking yelled at me for you, Cueball. She looked like she was going to piss herself, but she did it anyway." Santana snorts. "You picked well."

"Thanks… I think."

Santana tilts her head, looking at something over Quinn's shoulder. She laughs suddenly, and waves. It's far too enthusiastic to be genuine, and – if Quinn's honest with herself – it looks exactly like a Rachel Berry mannerism. "She's glaring at me right now. It's cute. Like a puppy."

Quinn has to exercise every ounce of self-control she has not to turn around and see for herself. "She's probably glaring at you 'cause you're behaving like an idiot."

"Mmm. Like I give a shit." Santana turns her attention back to Quinn. "Now I'm gonna be surrounded by disgusting couples. Way to make me feel happier about Britt, bitch."

Quinn shakes her head. It cost her a great deal even to acknowledge what Santana was asking, and she's not about to say anymore here, surrounded by people she doesn't know.

She blinks in surprise when Santana shoves a cupcake into her hand, startling her out of her thoughts. "Your mom ordered these for her guests."

"Just take it, or your girl will get worried," snaps Santana. "She's got that look on her face that says she thinks I'm torturing you or something, and then she'll go off on me, like not in a fun way. Anyway, it's way too crowded here for you to have feelings at me, Fabray."

Quinn knows Santana understands, and she offers Santana a brief nod. "... Thanks." She takes a bite of the cupcake, just to have something to do. "Fuck. This is delicious," she says, staring down at the confection in her hand.

"I know, right? I kinda hate Rose now for holding out on us; this is something worth breaking Sue's diet plans for. But I think my mom has a new favorite caterer, judging by the way she's gushing at Rose." Santana jerks her head in that direction; Quinn turns her head and sees Marley talking to Maribel, the older woman's praise animated.

"Hey, Cueball?"

Quinn doesn't dignify that with a verbal response, but she recognizes Santana's tone and pays attention.

"From one repressed bitch to another: sometimes, good things happen to us. It doesn't happen very often – because we're repressed bitches, duh – and we think we don't deserve it. The difficult bit is being okay with letting them happen."

Quinn sighs. "I thought Yale was my chance to make a fresh start away from all this."

"Fabgay, you're not about to run screaming back into the closet, are you?" asks Santana suddenly, squinting at her friend. "Because we already got you through your big gay revelation and I'd hate for all that work to be undone."

"Believe it or not, Santana, I've come to terms with my sexuality," snarls Quinn. "I'm just having a little trouble handling the fact that you think here and now is a great place to talk about this."

"Good. Just making sure." Santana sighs. "Look, I'll kill you if you tell anyone, but I once spent a week at a petting zoo 'cause of Britt."

"Really?" Quinn's curiosity is piqued; Santana doesn't normally give away blackmail material for free.

"Yeah. That's my point: one moment I'm the baddest bitch in Lima, the next I'm more whipped than cream and loving every second of it. That's the downside of being such a badass, Fabray; we got a longer way to fall. But it's worth it. Britt is worth all of it."

She recognizes this as Santana giving her blessing; albeit in a weird, roundabout way. Quinn smiles, heart warming. "Please, S; you and I both know you haven't been a badass since the day you agreed to matching duck Halloween costumes with Brittany."

Santana bares her teeth in a quick grin. "Fuck you," she says genially. "Since you're happily taken now, what say we do a triple date? You, me, Britt, Rosie, Porcelain, and Gay Warbler. We'll be the gayest group in town."

"I'll think about it." She really does have to think about it, because as much as she loves her friends, being seen by all of Lima – even in the safety of numbers – is another big step for her. She might have done it without second thought a few years ago, as an angry teenager lashing out at her upbringing, but now she is doing it for herself…

"You'd better," says Santana, recognizing Quinn's stalling tactics for what it is. "And I meant it about Breadstix. Text me."

A genuine smile spreads over Quinn's face. "I will."

When they get back in the car, no one speaks for a full minute until Quinn accidentally meets Marley's gaze, and they both burst into giggles.

"That went well."

Marley makes a 'pfft' sound. "That's a word for it," she says, grinning, parroting Quinn's earlier words.

"It could've been worse. I think being invited on the gayest triple date in Lima isn't the worst possible outcome."

"Wait, a triple date? Santana and Brittany, and who?"

"Kurt and Blaine."

Marley laughs again, but there's a strained quality to her voice. "That's… wow. Do we have to say yes? Is she gonna do something if we turn her down?"

"Marley, it's okay. Santana, of all people, knows what it feels like to be outed before you're ready. She won't push if you're not comfortable with it."

"I'm not uncomfortable," says Marley with a shrug. "I was wondering about you."

And here's something for Quinn to mull over. Two weeks ago, Quinn was perfectly content to stay in the closet her entire life; just because she'd accepted she was gay didn't mean she had to act on it. Maybe she would date a few girls discreetly and chalk it up to college experimentation. But now, she's with another person, her friends know, and they also happen to be insane about it. "We have plenty of time to think it over," she deflects. "C'mon, let's go have lunch, and then maybe we can sneak a nap later."

Marley wrinkles her nose. "And a shower, too," says Marley, starting Quinn off all over again.

Quinn hasn't been so full in a while.

She knows better than to ask why Millie had prepared a mostly-vegetarian yet sumptuous lunch; so she just smiles, praises the food effusively, and cleans her plate. It's a good strategy until Quinn has trouble convincing Millie not to give her yet another helping of baked ziti, which she had two helpings of already.

Luckily, Marley saves her. She pushes back her chair, takes Quinn's arm, and insists that they're both in dire need of a nap. Quinn could have kissed her – and almost does, until she remembers they're not alone anymore, and Millie doesn't know exactly how close Quinn and her daughter are.

Millie, smiling beatifically, lets them go without another word. She has a bridge club meeting anyway (Quinn's astonishment at her energy deepens) and reminds Marley that she'll be back after dinner.

Dimly, Quinn registers the words. She's still suffering from the early start to the day, the morning's hard work, and now this food coma. All she's capable of is nodding at Millie as she follows Marley upstairs to her room.

"Well, this is it." Marley waves a hand, her smile stretched and plastic.

"It looks lovely." A lot of it looks handmade, giving it a warm cozy feel. The throw pillows are mismatched, the furniture looks well-worn, and it's the most comfortable bedroom Quinn has ever seen. She crosses the room to the bed. "Hey, Otis," says Quinn, patting the stuffed otter on the head.

Marley still looks a little tense, but she manages a smile at Quinn's antics.

Quinn frowns. "Marley?" she asks, walking over to her. "Hey. Look at me?"

She does, reluctantly, teeth worrying at her lower lip.

"If you're really not okay with me being here, we can go back to my house."

Her expression abruptly closes off. "I'm fine. I stink, though, so I'm gonna take a shower first." And she disappears, leaving Quinn alone with Otis.

"Did I say something wrong?" she asks the stuffed otter, who makes no reply.

When Quinn comes back, fresh from her shower, Marley is already on the bed. She's lying on her side, facing away so Quinn can't see her expression.

She sighs, crawling into bed. There's a strange dip towards the middle of the mattress that she avoids carefully. "Marley? Are you asleep?"

There's no answer, but she can see the stiff way Marley holds herself still. It feels very, very strange to have the roles reversed: Marley, taciturn and sullen, Quinn trying to be supportive and coax out an explanation.

Quinn curls into Marley's back, hand on Marley's upper arm, squeezing it. "I know you're not sleeping. Can we… talk about what just happened?" She has a feeling that it has something to do with the way Marley was acting when they arrived at the house.

She gets no reply after waiting a few minutes; just when Quinn is about to give in and go to sleep, Marley rolls over to face Quinn. "I'm sorry," says Marley softly. "I just didn't want you to see where I live."

"What?"

"I know we don't have much money, but at least when we were on the road trip I could pretend that I didn't have… well, nothing. And crap." Marley sighs, poking at the corner of a throw pillow where the stitching is coming loose.

"You don't have nothing."

Marley ignores her. "We've only been back for a couple of days, and we've spent it working for my mom, delivering catering to Santana's house, and now we're stuck in my cramped and shabby room."

"Marley," Quinn interrupts gently, "where is all this coming from? What are you trying to say?"

"I just…" She blows out a breath slowly. "I didn't want you to see my reality because it's the complete opposite of yours and Santana's."

Quinn just stares at her. She's known that this was a sore spot, but she hadn't guessed how much it affected Marley. "Did you think I was going to hate you because of that? I'm not someone who judges a person's worth based on how much money their parents have, Marley. I mean… I'm not my parents, and I hope I never will be." She's a little hurt that Marley would think so poorly of her, to be honest, after everything they've said and done on the trip, but she tamps it down.

"I know that, but…" Marley protests.

"But nothing," she says curtly. There is a time to listen quietly, and this isn't it. "I don't care about any of it. I care about you."

The mattress dips (comically so; Marley wasn't joking about the hole in it) as Marley leans forward to kiss her; for a moment, a sliver of stomach is exposed by her T-shirt riding up, and Quinn's attention is drawn to it.

She acts on impulse. Quinn places her hand on Marley's stomach – marvelling at how warm her skin is – and rucks up the material, pressing a quick kiss on the exposed skin.

Marley inhales sharply. The skin under her fingertips moves. But she doesn't push Quinn away, or tell her to stop. Heart hammering in her ears, Quinn places another kiss, and another, the pause in between growing shorter. Marley's breathing starts to come heavy and irregular.

Quinn finds herself in the same situation from yesterday, in her kitchen, except… They're in Marley's room, in her bed. Her mother isn't home. There's nothing stopping them from going further, and it scares Quinn.

Then Marley's hand on hers stops Quinn from completely freaking out. She waits, half-expecting Marley to stop her, but instead, Marley strokes the back of Quinn's hand. Marley is blushing, not looking at her when Quinn darts a glance back up to her face. Emboldened, Quinn's other hand joins the first on Marley's abdomen. While her hands explore, she scoots up so they're nose-to-nose. Marley tips forward, evidently expecting a kiss; instead, Quinn maintains the space between them so she can look into Marley's eyes.

She pauses, not knowing how to express what is it she wants in words. Marley watches her, her eyes dark despite the late afternoon summer sun.

She kisses Marley unhurriedly, but with purpose. Her hands slip behind Marley's back, an action Marley mirrors.

Every fiber in Quinn's body is urging her to move. Heat pools low in her stomach, making each breath harder. She tries to relax into the kiss; this is normal, they've done this many times before, there's no reason for her to be freaking out.

But she is freaking out. She's in Marley's bed, wrapped up with Marley, tentatively but gradually kissing her into the mattress. Quinn knows what comes next, technically, and –

– rather than being scared of it, she is scared of how much she wants it.

Quinn gasps as Marley sucks on her neck. She arches her body, lifting her chin, showing Marley where to go next. Clearly, Marley has learned to read Quinn over the past few days, and she leaves a trail of kisses, each point of contact scorching the air out of Quinn's lungs.

Just as quickly as she started, Marley stops. She hangs back, panting slightly, cheeks flushed, hair mussed. They stare at each other. The mood changes, solidifying until the tension in the atmosphere makes it hard to breathe.

Without conscious thought, Quinn puts out her right hand. Her fingers brush away at Marley's hairline, pushing the errant strands of hair back. She can see Marley's eyes following the movement of her hand, expression unreadable.

Quinn holds her breath; Marley lets hers out slowly, hot air brushing Quinn's skin.

Before Quinn can withdraw her hand, Marley's fingers curl around it, gently holding it in place against her cheek. Her eyes flutter shut as she turns to press her face into Quinn's palm.

If Quinn thought it was hard to breathe before, it is impossible now. She can't look away from Marley, from whatever she is seeing in the other girl's face.

When Marley finally looks at Quinn again, Quinn is shocked by how dark her eyes are. A hint of white shows when Marley presses her teeth into her lower lip; Quinn's gaze flickers there, following the movement. The tension goes up another notch.

Quinn has to make a move before she loses her nerve. She brushes the pad of her thumb over Marley's lower lip, stopping her from abusing it further, and swipes further down, tracing the outline of her mouth. The movement coaxes a soft sound from Marley.

They've kissed plenty of times. There have been plenty of touches, innocent, teasing, and everything in between. This – whatever this is – feels much more intimate than anything they've done before.

Quinn tries to slide her hand down Marley's cheek; Marley's grip slackens, and lets her. While her thumb lingers on the corner of Marley's lips, her fingertips drag over the other girl's jaw, nails scraping a little. Quinn's left hand comes up to frame Marley's face, mirroring the position of the right briefly.

She tugs lightly; Marley obediently leans in to meet her halfway.

Quinn's lips only brush Marley's teasingly. Marley makes a noise of protest, and tips her face at an angle to kiss her again; Quinn lets her.

If there's one thing she knows how to do well, it's to kiss. Quinn prides herself on always retaining her control no matter how heated things get. None of her rules apply to Marley; offering anything less than all Quinn has to give feels like an insult to her, even if it goes against all of Quinn's instincts. No matter how right it feels…

She breaks the kiss again. Marley, eyes closed, tries to follow. Quinn allows herself a quick, secret smile before pressing her lips to the corner of Marley's smile. Slowly, like they have an entire summer to be doing this. Passionately, like this is the only thing she wants to be doing for the rest of her life.

Quinn's mouth moves against Marley's. Neither wants to give way this time. Her lips follow the path her thumb marked out scant minutes before; Marley moans, the sound vibrating into Quinn's body. Quinn has not let go of Marley's face, and she is vaguely aware that Marley's hands, formerly on the bed, have threaded themselves into her hair. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, blood pounding in her ears.

Then Marley breaks the kiss and rolls flat on her back, chest rising and falling with deep breaths. "Are you okay?" she asks, pushing herself up on an elbow to look down at Marley, alarmed.

"I'm fine," she answers. "Just.. there was a lot going on."

"Oh. Yeah." She's not about to try putting it into words herself.

Then Marley surges up to kiss her cheek, surprisingly chaste after everything. "It was good," she clarifies, her smile a little crooked, "but a little intense," Marley admits. "I don't… I'm not ready."

It takes a while for it to sink in, but when it does, Quinn goes bright red. "I, uh, me too," she stutters. "That's not…" and trails off into an embarrassed silence, willing the hole in Marley's bed to let her sink through and disappear for good. She settles for tucking herself into Marley's side.

"I've never – you know – before," Marley whispers, then buries her face in Quinn's neck.

Quinn tries to say something. It comes out as a squeak. But she manages a, "Not even with…?" on her second try.

She feels Marley shake her head. "No. Not for lack of trying on his part."

It breaks the tension. They both giggle.

"Boys."

Marley laughs into her neck. "Boys," she says, like it's the funniest joke she's ever heard.

She wraps her arms around Marley's waist, pulling her closer, hands resting placidly over her shirt, feeling like her world's been turned upside down. They were in very much the same situation yesterday, but she had stopped them. She hadn't been ready.

And now? Marley was the one to stop. And Quinn would be lying if she says she's perfectly happy with that.

She's not completely ignorant of how two girls can have sex. She's done a lot of clandestine web searches (once using the library computers, hoping they'll blame the search history on Jacob ben Israel); she knows some key phrases like scissoring and gold star lesbian and Ellen deGeneres. The question, of course, is whether she's ready to have sex with someone she's known – for all intents and purposes – for two weeks, and has been kissing for one. Someone who'll be off to New York in a matter of months, who's way too kind and sweet and good for Quinn Fabray.

She wants to believe everything Santana says; she really does. But Brittany won't be going to New York with her, and neither of them are capable of holding a long-distance relationship.

Quinn will always, always choose to walk away first.

Quinn runs a hand through Marley's hair, combing through the silky brown hair with her fingers. It's much like the action that caused the shift between them, but this time, Marley's response is to let out a low hum and snuggle closer.

She's asleep. It's amazing that she can sleep, considering how noisy Quinn's internal freak-out is.

When she interrupts herself with a yawn, Quinn decides that sleep is a very good idea. She lets her eyes close and her thoughts drift.

As much as she wants to spend another day wrapped up in Marley (literally and figuratively), Quinn does miss spending time with Santana, and texts her to confirm their dinner plans.

Santana's reply is practically instantaneous.

duh bitch

Quinn rolls her eyes even though Santana isn't there to see it.

Lovely.

u luv me xx

Santana is already seated and terrorizing the staff when Quinn arrives. "Fabby," she says, nodding at Quinn.

Quinn bares her teeth in a smile. "Satan. Nice to see you outside of hell." She slides into the booth, and is immediately presented with a glass of iced water.

"Keep the breadsticks coming until I say so," says Santana to the nervous-looking waiter. "Bring me a spaghetti and meatball special for now." Quinn adds her order of chicken parmigiana before the man scuttles off.

"How many baskets have you consumed so far?" she asks, nodding at the half-empty basket in front of her friend.

"Not enough." She nods at the waitress who replenishes her breadsticks. "It's a celebration, Q; we're celebrating you finally getting some tail."

"Shut up," she hisses, eyes darting left and right.

"Relax, Cueball." She nods at their vacant immediate surroundings. "No one's within earshot because I told the manager we're not to be disturbed. It pays to be a platinum VIP customer at Breadstix."

Quinn does relax a fraction; Santana is many things, but she would never lie about matters pertaining to their privacy. "I didn't know Breadstix had a customer loyalty program."

"They don't. Ed the manager was just tired of explaining me and my demands to his higher-ups. Giving me a label makes his waiting on me hand and foot sound legit to them, ya know?"

"No, I don't." Quinn cracks a smile. "You're something else, you know that?"

"Yeah, no one's as awesome as me, Santana Fucking Lopez. New York won't know what hit it." She dips her breadstick in marinara sauce and chews on it. "Are you okay with talking now, or do I need to snap my fingers and have Ed bring out the privacy screen?"

She's half-convinced Santana isn't exaggerating. "Why are you doing this?"

"Ideally I'd like to have this little talk somewhere more private, but something tells me I'mma need energy for this." Santana points her half-eaten breadstick at Quinn. "I'm impressed, Fabby. You've only been on a trip with Rose two weeks and you're already macking on her. I would never have pegged her for the lady-loving type, given how she's spent the last two years orbiting Baby Puckerman and Baby Hudson."

Quinn folds her hands primly in her lap. "Before we talk about that, you're gonna tell me what you and Puck did to Jesse St James at Nationals."

"Jesse who?"

She narrows her eyes at Santana, who stares blankly at her before bursting into raucous laughter. "What, she told you? Oh man, that was priceless. She's all sorts of hidden colors under that bland goody-two-shoes exterior." She reaches for another breadstick. "We let St Lames chill out in the dumpster for a while. No biggie."

"That's it?"

"We may have been dumb enough to sleep with each other before, but Puckerman and I aren't dumb enough to pull off something major right at Nationals; not with Berry Sr hanging around. That woman is way scary if anything happens to her singing robot army before a major competition." She grins when the waiter returns with their food, digging in with relish. "Your girl is a trooper, by the way; I hope she told you that," says Santana, words muffled by her pasta.

Quinn allows herself a small smile as she twirls spaghetti around her fork. Santana mimes gagging into her food.

"Forget I said anything. Really."

"I know that's not all you did. Tell me what else you did to him, or I'll tell Rachel you were responsible for her bedazzler's disappearance."

"Fuck. You."

"Not only will I tell her where you hid it, I'll also buy her a jumbo pack of rhinestones for New York." Quinn's voice goes syrupy-sweet. "Won't your apartment look nice? She'll bedazzle every bit of fabric in it. The couch cushions, your bed, the toilet seat…"

"Fabray, you monster!"

Quinn leans back in her seat, smiling. She knows she's won. "Tell me."

"Fuck," says Santana, sighing deeply. "Okay, fine. Puck and I superglued the button and zipper of his pants. And his stupid suspenders to his shirt for good measure."

"Oh my god."

Santana can't stop smirking. "I heard from one of the other show choir kids that he tried to go for a last-minute pre-show good luck tinkle. Kinda serves them right for wearing tight tailored pants. He had to get help cutting them off after the performance."

Quinn snorts loudly. "You evil genius bitch. I can't believe you didn't get caught."

"Please, who do you think you're talking to? I scare myself sometimes with how brilliant I am." Santana inspects her cuticles. "Now spill about you and your girl."

"There's nothing to spill." It feels too personal, telling Santana how everything changed yesterday. "We haven't… you know. And we might never."

"Why not? Do you not know how girls do it?" Santana asks bluntly. "You've walked in on Britt and me enough times already; most people don't need an instruction manual beyond that."

"No! God! That's not – I don't even know why I'm talking to you about this," Quinn growls. "But if you must know, it's only been two weeks. No one falls for anyone in two weeks."

Santana shrugs. "You're talking to the wrong fucking person. I first laid eyes on Britt in preschool. She was telling Karofsky that unicorns were real and they pulled Santa's sleigh sometimes when the reindeer were sick. In that instant, I knew she was the one for me."

"You're serious?"

"No," says Santana, and cackles as Quinn glares at her. "Fuck, Fabby, your expression was priceless."

"I hate you. Stop calling me that."

"No."

Quinn sighs and lets it go. She knows that Santana can be extremely childish when it comes to her new playthings. "I don't… it doesn't make sense, S. I barely know her." She drops her head into her hands. "I think… I might've made a mistake letting her in."

"A mistake? Fuck you, say that to her face, you coward," Santana snaps, playful demeanor gone. "Letting Fuckerman into your granny panties was a mistake, not whatever you have with Rose. Anyone with eyes can see that she adores you despite the fact you're a closed-off bitch with a stripper pole up your ass."

Quinn doesn't feel like she has the right to be mad at that. "I'm just… she's going to New York with you and Rachel and Kurt and… I'm not."

"So? Big freaking whatever. Newsflash, Fabby; trains and shit exist. You're not stuck on another planet."

Quinn glares at her. "It's not that. She… she deserves better than me. She'll be going to the world's biggest city and meeting so many people. Better people. People who will be better for her than me."

Santana's eyebrows rise, in danger of disappearing into her hairline. "Ay, dios mio,"she grunts. "Look, I've known her for all of five minutes and even I can see that it's you she wants, and you want her just as much. Okay? She's like Berry; she doesn't give up on people when a better model comes along, like a puppy. It's an annoying problem, but it's your annoying problem." She grins suddenly. "And she stood up to me, Santana fucking Lopez, for you, Cueball Fabby Fabgay. That counts for a lot in my book, so you don't let someone like that go."

She smiles at the memory; she can't help it. Santana points at her accusingly. "See! You're being totally gross right now. Stop it."

The smile melts off her face, and Quinn stabs moodily at her chicken. "It still doesn't make sense," she repeats stubbornly.

"Look, Fabby, remember what we talked about yesterday? Life doesn't fucking make any sense, and it's not supposed to. If it did, I wouldn't be a lesbian ex-cheerleader moving to New York with two of the people I used to throw slushies at." Santana smirks. "She makes you happy, Q; you're less of an uptight bitch than you normally are with her."

"Fuck you."

"Holding on to something that makes you happy is as good a plan as any other," Santana says, unfazed. "What doesn't make sense about that?"

Quinn chews on her lower lip. Everything Santana's said is a variation of what's been floating around her brain for the past few days, but hearing it from one of her closest friends makes it real. "I'm scared, San."

"Yeah, I know, Q. I've been there." Santana sighs. "It's terrifying, having feelings and shit."

"I think I love her." Quinn hates that her voice comes out shaky, but it's out, and she can't take it back.

Santana starts to laugh, then stops as she scrutinizes Quinn's expression. "Holy shit, you're serious." Santana squints at her. "It's only been a couple of weeks. You and your U-Haul are gonna give all lesbians a bad name."

"Shut up."

"Love you too. Are you gonna tell her?"

Quinn utters a soft groan. "Santana, can we not talk about this anymore? Please?"

"God, Fabray, you begging me is doing nothing for my libido." Santana roughly shoves her basket of breadsticks at Quinn. "Here. Eat, before you ruin blondes for me."

This is Santana's way of changing the subject, and Quinn breathes a little easier at the reprieve. The conversation isn't over – not by a long shot, but it's not Santana she needs to be having it with.