It was too soon.
She certainly wasn't going to say it, because she could barely allow herself to think it. But it still alarmed Quinn that she had come close several times now to just blurting it out.
The first had been when Sam was driving her home from the park. They had been at a stoplight, their hands intertwined between them on the seat. She was mesmerized by the way his hand was so much bigger than hers that it should have felt as if she was a doe caught in a bear trap, but it was honestly just really nice.
And then he had lifted her hand up to his and lightly kissed each of her fingers, even her thumb. Heat had flooded Quinn's cheeks, and Sam had leaned over and kissed those two bright spots as well.
The second time was three days after that, in Glee Club. Even though, at that point, it had scarcely been a week, everyone knew that Sam Evans and Quinn Fabray were—at Ms. Pilsbury and/or Rachel would put it—"an item". As Sam entered the room with Quinn on his arm, the club erupted into raucous cheering, which included Artie yelping, "Get it, boy!" and Santana saying something about Trouty Mouth.
Sam responded by scooping Quinn up into his arms like Superman with Lois Lane and carrying her to their seats.
Most recently, they had been laying in Quinn's bed last night, barely touching, just talking about nothing. Judy was at some club for divorced mothers, which she went to every Saturday and came back with smudged eye make-up but somehow happier. But as much as Quinn loved her mother, Judy could have been strapped to a gurney and force-fed chocolate pudding. The only thing that mattered was the sound of Sam's voice.
They had been together for exactly two weeks, and had spent the whole day with each other. Sam was talking about his brother and sister, how much he loved them and looked forward to seeing them when he got home from school every day.
If he hadn't turned his head at a particular moment to catch her gazing at him as if he was a can of tuna fish and she a starving stray cat—a mixture of adoration and raw desire—she wouldn't have come as close to saying it as she did. But then he laughed, that quirky, adorable half-smiling curling up one cheek.
"What?" Sam asked.
"I—" Love you.
Quinn managed to catch herself just in time, finishing with a hasty, "—want to watch a movie." She had a feeling Sam knew what she was going to say, though, and thanked him with a few particularly passionate kisses for not pressing her.
Now, they were sitting in his car, staring at the weathered door of his little gray house. Sam was gripping the wheel so tightly that skin was stretched across his knuckles to the point where Quinn was genuinely worried that a few bones would pop through.
She gently reached over and loosened his grip on the wheel. "Sam, what's the matter?"
He shook his head mutely, not looking at Quinn. Her heart began to beat much too fast and her lungs shrank to useless lumps of cells in her chest. He's breaking up with me, she thought, and desperately reviewed every second of the past two and a half weeks. Oh my God, he's—
"Embarrassed," Sam was saying, and she forced herself out of her semi-hysterical reverie to focus on him.
"Wait," said Quinn blankly. "What? Why?"
Sam flung one hand in sharp, dismissive gesture that indicated the house in front of them. "You're like this princess who lives in this big, beautiful castle, and I'm the stable boy who lives in the village and bathes only twice a year."
The comparison was so ludicrous that Quinn almost laughed out-loud. It was only because of the carefully cultivated modicum of self-control perfected over years of being the HBIC that she was able to stop herself. "Sam, that's insane. I don't ca—"
"But you will!" he burst out, slamming the one hand Quinn had managed to free against the wheel with such force that the horn emitted a faint honk. "You will, as soon as you step foot inside that house and realize just how dirt poor my family is. I'm not good enough for you, Quinn."
Quinn made an odd yelping sound that held both contempt and dark humor. "Why, because my parents make more than yours? What other archaic ideas do you believe in, Sam? Feudalism? Slavery?"
He shook his head, still keeping his eyes on the front door. "You don't get it," he said softly. "I can't—I can't pay for dates, I can't buy you nice gifts for your birthday or Christmas or our anniversary, I can't—!"
Sam stopped talking, but that was only because Quinn has wrapped her hand around his mouth. "Are you done?" she demanded, and when he nodded, she pulled away.
"Listen, Sam," she said, "I don't care how much money your parents make. I don't care if you wear your dad's old shirts. I don't care about any of it. I love you because of who you are, and that's not going to change with any dollar amount—!"
"You—what was that last part?" Sam breathed, and Quinn stopped in midsentence, realizing her mistake.
She glanced out the windshield at Sam's house. She could see what must have been the dining room through the front window, and spotted a painting of a little girl by a garden well hanging on the wall by a china cabinet. As simple as it was, it must have taken the painter hours of painstaking work, and surely they had made a few mistakes.
But still, the end result was beautiful, and worth it.
"I love you, Sam," she said. "I—I know it's too soon, but—!"
She hesitated, her heart shifting into overdrive again, but Sam only smiled. "I love you too, Quinn."
With that, he hopped out of the cab and came around to her door, taking and keeping her hand as he helped her out. "And now I want you to meet my family."
