She stepped her way into the small house. It wasn't that nicely decorated, nor all that impressive. It certainly wasn't to her standards of living. Her room was easily the size of two of their living rooms. The couch was aged; it seemed to sigh whenever someone sat down. Her nose wrinkled a bit, and he could feel her judgment, even with his back turned to her.

"It's not paradise," he admitted sheepishly. "But it's all my mom can afford." He shrugged, as he gestured her to sit down wherever she saw fit. She opted to stand. She looked around the small room. It must have been hell sitting in here and trying to eat dinner. She looked to the walls. There weren't very many pictures. Then again, he wasn't exactly screaming Mr. Photogenic.

He returned from the kitchen with two beers. "Thirsty?" he asked as he offered her one. She stared blankly for a moment. Would this end up on America's Most Wanted or something? She could only pray not.

"How old are you?" she asked, her eyes narrowing a bit. He frowned. Whenever he shaved, he was mistaken for a teenager. Or…at least, a younger version of one.

"Eighteen," he said, retreating his hand. Her nose wrinkled. "I'm not old enough to drink and neither are you," she said firmly. He watched her with a somewhat bewildered expression. She marched right into that kitchen and poured his tasty treat down the drain. "Hey, I earned that!" he protested, though he was otherwise powerless.

She flashed him an unapologetic glare as she took her seat again. "So, your duties include doing some medial yard work and then getting drunk?" He frowned. Medial? He was pretty sure that was an insult, or something. "I just wanted to cool off," he mumbled as he took a spot beside her. It was hard to deny how attractive he looked in his muscle shirt and cargo shorts. She began counting the freckles. One, two, three…

"What're you staring at?" he asked, cutting her thoughts in half. She panicked for a moment before dodging his question.

"Why are you my troubled youth?" she asked. He didn't seem like too big of a trouble-maker. His expression took a dive. "That's really none of your business," he said as he looked away. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. "It is," she countered, primly folding her hands across her lap. He rolled his eyes. "It's not."

He was already proving to be a challenge. They sat for several minutes in a cold silence. The clock ticked over their heads, the oldest parts of the house now talking to them.

Moments later, his mom burst through the door, arms full with groceries. "I brought some food home for our guest," she said, not seeing Rachel over the paper bags. His mom - much unlike him - was a bit more lighthearted and friendly. "I got vegetables. Her profile said she loved vegetables." He rolled his eyes. "Great," he mumbled as he got up to help her. He hardly noticed the fact that she was sitting right there. Rachel frowned and decided to introduce herself.

"Mrs. Hummel?" she asked and carefully stepped forward. "I'm Rachel." She smiled warmly. Carole sat her bags down and shot Finn a glare, as if silently scolding him for being so uninviting. "It's really great to have you!" Carole offered, realizing that this probably looked bad on her behalf; at least, his attitude did. Rachel took another moment to look around their home. Granted, she wasn't overly-impressed with it, but Carole did seem nice. And she even went out of her way to make sure her diet was taken into consideration. That was a good start, right?

—

"Stop picking at your food," Carole said as she side-glanced at Finn. He was none too happy with their dinner. He was more of a meat-and-potatoes-kind-of-guy. This just wasn't cutting it. He rolled his eyes and stabbed another Brussels Sprout, hoping it might turn into a big, juicy steak. He took a bite. Disappointment.

"So, Rachel," said Carole as she took a drink of her milk. "Tell us more about yourself." She adjusted in her seat a bit. It was so nice of the commoners to take interest in her. "I'm an aspiring performer," she said proudly, her hair flipping shoulders.

She was met with two confused stares. "In what, the circus?" Finn piped up, grinning at his own joke. His mom gave him a hard smack on the bicep, causing him to jump back a little. Rachel couldn't help but stare. He was obviously very well-built. "Jeeze," she heard him mumble, rubbing over the pink-colored handprint that lined his arm.

Carole looked back at her with an apologetic smile. "Go on." Rachel cleared her throat. She hoped her next words would be met with only the utmost enthusiasm. "I've starred in several private productions in Theater on the Circle. I'm also their program director this year." She beamed at the accomplishment. Carole feigned enthusiasm, in reality, having no grasp on the significance in this. Finn just rolled his eyes as he continued to stab away at was once a delicious bushel of broccoli.

"Why don't you show her to your room?" Carole asked. He nearly coughed on his veggies. "What?" he asked, wiping away some of the debris left by his mouth. "Your room." Carole emphasized. "You two will be sharing. I set up a lovely partition." Rachel - again - beamed. The woman seemed to appreciate talent and had a small knack for interior decoration. Her stay would likely be as good as this evening was going. He gave her a hardened stare as he slowly rose from his seat, leaving the plate for her to clean. "Fine," he said, carefully pushing the chair away before stepping out. He began to walk upstairs, already mumbling and grumbling.

"Be a gentleman," his mom urged, signaling to the luggage. He grimaced before reaching down and picking up the bag in one, strong swipe. He slung it over his shoulder and began his journey again.

Rachel couldn't help but stare at his muscles as he made his way up the stairs. And, yes. All of his muscles. She bit her lip as he pushed open his door. It was obvious whose side was whose; his was dirty and had a few posters of scantily-clad women.

"I guess you're on the far side." He casually dropped her bag at the edge of the partition. "I take it you've never been hired help." He shot her a glare. She wasn't winning him over. "What's that supposed to mean?" She shrugged her jacket off her shoulders. "Well, you're certainly no gentleman," she said matter-of-factly. He frowned. "And I certainly don't appreciate the last of my valuables being tossed aside like some rag muffin." Rag muffin? he thought. What the hell is this girl on, anyway? He shook his head. Admittedly, he felt a little bad.

"Sorry," he mumbled sheepishly. The next thing she knew, his shirt was off. She stared for a moment before turning her head. He was sweaty and disgusting, and partially covered in bits of grass. But she couldn't get over those arms. He glanced at her. He noticed her embarrassed face before he rolled his eyes. "What?" he asked, almost coyly. He carefully ran a rag along his arms, washing off the dirt and filth. She didn't answer for a moment. That was twice that he caught her staring. She wasn't a good liar, either. "Nothing," she finally offered, though he had little reason to believe it. He grinned to himself.

Without warning, he plopped down on his bed. "I guess you sleep on that side," he said, hinting her to leave him alone. "Like…behind that Parliament." She giggled. "What?" he asked again, looking up at her with staunch confusion. "You're weird," he added. His gaze returned to the ceiling.

"It's partition," she corrected gently.

He shrugged. "Who gives a shit?"

She frowned a little. "I do," she said, continuing to stand there. He rolled and turned his back to her. "You don't have a lot of friends, do you?" he asked boldly. "Little Ms. Popular, come here in my house and give me weird looks, telling me about Parliament." He yawned. "You need a hobby."

She figured all of this rudeness was some form of jealousy. Or, maybe he was always that way?

"Where do you go to school?" she asked, trying to be polite. He took a moment to answer. "I don't," he finally said. "Dropped out."

She rubbed her arm before taking a seat on a football-shaped chair. "Do you like sports?" He sighed loudly.

Soon, he was meeting her gaze again. "What're you doing?" he asked. His tone somewhat changed; he wasn't as harsh as he was before.

"I'm sitting in your chair," she said with a coy smile.

"No, I mean…with all the questions and junk. What do you want?"

"To know if you like sports."

He stared for a moment. "I don't," he said, knowing that she probably knew better. He just hated talking about himself.

"Then why do you have a football-shaped chair?"

"To sit in," he answered, seeing her game.

"But why a football? You could just as easily go out an buy a unicorn-shaped chair, or even a chair-shaped chair."

"A unicorn?" he asked, this being the only thing that caught his attention. "Why the hell would I buy a unicorn-shaped chair?"

"Well, why would you buy a football-shaped chair?" She smirked.

"Because I like football!" he shot back, visibly frustrated. He paused. Dammit. She won this round.

"What do you want?" he asked, seeming exhausted at this.

She got up without a word, beginning to look around his side of the room. "I've been in your house an hour and I've yet to see a single picture of your family," she said. She sat down on the bed next to him, able to feel his body heat radiating.

"You met my family. She's all I have." He looked at her seriously, meeting a saddened gaze.

"That's it? No aunts or uncles? What about your father?"

He frowned before he turned back over. "Enough," he said, shifting back into his pissed-off mood. She sat there a moment, somewhat surprised he hadn't asked her to move to her own side again. Maybe he was catching on. "Finn?" she asked again. "Where's the bathroom? I need to relieve myself."

Finally, a chuckle. "To what?" he asked. His head turned slightly. She could feel a small blush rise in her cheeks. "What?" she asked, the tables turning on the banter. "I need to…relieve myself." Her brows furrowed as she heard him laugh a little more. " 'S over there," he said, pointing to a door. She carefully got up, his eyes following her the whole way.

Moments later, she emerged. She took her place again. "I stole a car," he said, causing her head to snap up a bit. "You what?"

"I stole a car. A red one."

She frowned. "And why would you do that?"

He felt his jaw clench a little bit before he turned over to face her. He still hadn't put a shirt on. "Why's that important?" he wondered aloud. "I stole a car and crashed it into a building." He looked away, obviously not proud of this. "No one got hurt," he added to make her feel better. He looked back up at her. "What did you do?" he asked, aware of how her program worked. "You know…little Miss future Harvard."

She leaned over him a bit, checking him out, though she wasn't making it obvious.

She sighed. "I tricked someone into a cellar." She paused after she realized how silly it sounded. "Because I deserved that opening timeslot."

She met a confused stare. Something happened then; he couldn't really explain it. Carefully, he leaned up and their noses brushed. She sat, frozen with fear. She'd never been this close to someone who'd likely been on Cops before.

He leaned in and closed the gap.

Actually, she'd never kissed anyone before.