A/N: DawnB this ones for you! Thanks for reading everyone. We're back to Quinns POV a little shorter of a chapter compared to the last but an important one for her character.
The shower scalds against her shoulders, the steam curling thick around her as she presses her hands against the tiled wall, letting the heat sink into her skin. The early morning chill still clings to the bathhouse, but here, under the pounding water, it's easy to pretend she's somewhere else—anywhere else. Her fingers drift lower, skimming the edge of her hip, where a wound is just starting to turn into a scar. She barely touches it, but even that slight pressure sends a memory flashing through her like a blade. The crack of the belt. The sharp, white-hot pain blooming across her skin. The rage in his eyes.
Quinn exhales through her nose and presses harder, tracing the uneven ridges of healing flesh with something like fascination. She hasn't told anyone. Not her mother. Not even herself, really. Because admitting it—saying it aloud—would make it real. She squeezes her eyes shut, tilting her head forward so the water crashes down onto the back of her neck, drowning out the thoughts she doesn't want to have. Yesterday had been a disaster. She'd woken up with the nightmare still clinging to her like oil, thick and suffocating, and spent the entire morning trying to claw her way out of it. And then—the chicken dance.
Quinn groans softly, dragging her hands down her face. She hadn't meant to get caught up in it. Hadn't meant to let herself slip, even for a second. But there had been something exhausting about trying to keep herself separate, something reckless bubbling beneath her skin, and in that moment—just for that stupid, fleeting moment—she'd wanted to forget. Wanted to be just another camp kid, grinning and spinning and losing herself in something light and ridiculous. And now the memory of it makes her sick.
It was the nightmare. The exhaustion. Rachel. That's why it happened. Because Rachel was there, and she has a way of worming under Quinn's skin, of pulling things out of her that Quinn never wants to see. Which, of course, brings her to the walnut thing. Her stomach twists, and suddenly, she's scrubbing at her arms, her collarbone, her shoulders—faster, harder, like she can wash the memory away before it sinks too deep. She shouldn't have known that. Shouldn't have reacted so quickly. It had been instinct, pure and immediate—seeing the sauce, seeing Rachel's plate, and knowing before anyone else had even registered what it was.
And Rachel noticed.
The way she'd looked at Quinn, wide-eyed and curious—like she was wondering something. Like she was figuring something out. Quinn drags her hands down her arms again, rough and forceful, her skin turning red under the pressure. She shouldn't know things about Rachel. Shouldn't notice things. And yet she does, again and again, without even trying. She digs her nails into her palm, breathing hard through her nose, trying to force the thoughts back into the place where she keeps all the other things she doesn't let herself think about—
Loud voices break through the fog in her head.
The bathhouse door swings open, and a group of girls burst in, laughing and chattering, their voices bouncing off the damp walls. Quinn's body stiffens instinctively, her entire being snapping into place like a soldier standing at attention. Breathe in. Straighten your shoulders. Carry yourself correctly. She reaches for the knob and shuts off the water, her movements precise, controlled. No hesitation. No emotion. The heat of the shower fades instantly, replaced by the cool air of the bathhouse, but she ignores the shiver that runs through her. Moving quickly but methodically, she grabs her towel from where she hung it outside the stall and wraps it around herself, pressing it into her skin with firm, efficient strokes. She doesn't let herself linger. Doesn't let herself feel. The girls outside keep talking, their voices overlapping in an easy, careless rhythm, but Quinn stays in her stall, unseen, untouched by whatever world they belong to.
She dresses in silence, pulling on her clothes with smooth, practiced movements. Shorts. A tank top. The standard camp uniform. Nothing special. Nothing worth thinking about. She ties her damp hair into a low ponytail, twisting the band tighter than necessary, like maybe that, too, can keep something contained. Only then does she step out of the stall. As she reaches the door, she catches a glimpse of herself in the fogged-up mirror. Her skin is red—angry, raw, irritated from where she scrubbed too hard. She forces herself to look at it. Just for a second. Then she looks away and walks out, as if she never saw it at all.
The dining hall is already alive with voices by the time Quinn arrives, trays clattering, laughter bouncing off the high wooden beams. The scent of eggs and syrup lingers in the air, too sweet, too warm, making her stomach twist. She forces herself to walk with purpose, to keep her posture straight as she scans the room for the Fox Tribe. She spots them easily—Ethan, Olivia, and Nate already deep in conversation, Rachel sitting across from them, engaged but noticeably less animated than usual. Rachel looks up just as Quinn approaches. For a second, she hesitates. It's subtle—the brief pause in her movements, the flicker of something unreadable in her eyes—but Quinn catches it. She doesn't give Rachel a chance to say anything. She slides into the open seat next to Ethan without a word, reaching for the nearest food item like she's been here all along. It's too forced, too calculated, but she doesn't care. She's already held herself together this long. Ethan shifts slightly beside her, giving her the same assessing glance he had the night before. She doesn't acknowledge it.
"Morning," Olivia says cheerfully, barely waiting for a response before diving back into a story about some ridiculous thing she overheard in the bathhouse.
Quinn nods vaguely, mechanically loading food onto her plate. She isn't hungry. Not really. The table carries on as usual—Nate laughing at Olivia's dramatic retelling, Rachel contributing here and there, though Quinn notices she keeps sneaking glances her way. Quinn pointedly keeps her gaze on her plate. Ethan, however, doesn't let it slide so easily. After a few minutes, he leans slightly toward her, his voice low.
"You good?"
Quinn stiffens, grip tightening around her fork.
"Yeah. Fine." It's automatic, clipped. She doesn't look at him, just keeps pushing food around her plate like it's the most interesting thing in the world.
Ethan hums in response, like he doesn't quite believe her, but he doesn't push. Just lets the silence settle between them, easy but aware. Meanwhile, Rachel hesitates again. Quinn can feel it—can feel Rachel watching her, like she wants to say something but doesn't know if she should. The conversation continues, light and effortless for everyone else. But Quinn just sits there, her back too straight, her shoulders too stiff, pretending to be part of it while something inside her keeps winding tighter.
As breakfast winds down, Quinn waits for the right moment. The second the conversation shifts into something she can easily step away from—maybe Olivia and Nate start debating what the morning activity might be—she pushes her chair back, quiet and deliberate. She moves like a shadow, careful not to draw attention. If she times it right, she can slip away before anyone notices, before anyone stops her—
"Where are you going?" Ethan's voice is casual, but there's something sharp beneath it. Not accusing, just knowing. Quinn's jaw tightens. She should've expected this.
"Nowhere," she mutters, already regretting how unconvincing it sounds.
Ethan raises an eyebrow. "Uh-huh." He doesn't say anything else, but the way he's looking at her—like he sees her, like he's not letting this slide—is enough.
Before she can come up with an excuse, Olivia jumps in. "Good, because we're heading to the lakefront before the morning activity. Bonding time, remember?" Quinn swallows down a sigh, already seeing where this is going.
Rachel, who had been quiet up until now, suddenly chimes in. "You don't have to come if you don't want to."
She says it lightly, but there's something behind it—something almost challenging. It makes Quinn's skin prickle. She could say no. She wants to say no. But Ethan is still watching her, and Olivia is already getting up like it's settled. So she forces out a shrug, keeping her expression neutral. "Whatever." Ethan smirks like he just won something. And just like that, her plan to be alone unravels before her eyes.
The lakefront is alive with morning light, the water catching the early sun in rippling reflections. The Fox Tribe settles into their usual rhythm—Nate skipping rocks, Olivia playfully shoving Ethan when he teases her, Rachel sitting cross-legged in the sand, twirling a blade of grass between her fingers as she listens to the conversation. Quinn is there, but not really. The words, the laughter, the playful bickering—it all washes over her, muffled and distant, like she's listening through a wall of water. She hears it, acknowledges it, but doesn't feel it.
She contributes nothing. Doesn't laugh when Olivia tells a ridiculous story. Doesn't react when Nate makes an over-the-top dramatic reenactment of their Capture the Flag win. Even when Rachel's voice cuts through the noise—sharp, distinct, something that always reaches her—Quinn stays still, staring out at the water like it might swallow her whole. She doesn't belong in this moment. She doesn't want to. Ethan glances at her once or twice, but he doesn't say anything. Maybe he knows it won't make a difference. Time moves in slow, detached increments. Eventually, the bell for morning activities rings, pulling them all back to reality. Quinn exhales, already bracing herself for whatever's next.
The walk from the lakefront to the activity center is filled with the usual morning chatter—Olivia teasing Nate about his tragic rock-skipping technique, Ethan making some dry remark that earns a round of laughter, Rachel engaged but quiet, sneaking the occasional glance in Quinn's direction.
Quinn walks with them, but not with them.
She keeps her steps measured, her gaze fixed ahead, her presence reduced to something functional. She doesn't contribute. Doesn't engage. Just moves, lets their voices wash over her, lets the heat of the rising sun press against her skin as she waits for the next thing to pull her forward.
By the time they reach the activity center, Jake is already there, leaning against a wooden post with his arms crossed, watching them with that easy smirk he always seems to have. His camp t-shirt is slightly wrinkled, his baseball cap is tilted backward, and he looks like the kind of guy who could be leading a ropes course or casually scamming tourists out of their money at a beachside card game.
"Morning, Fox Tribe," he calls, pushing off the post as they gather. "Hope you're ready to build some trust, because today we're hitting the low ropes course."
A few groans ripple through the group, but Olivia pumps a fist in excitement. "Hell yeah, teamwork exercises."
Ethan smirks. "Said no one ever."
Jake laughs. "Love the enthusiasm, guys. But trust me, this stuff's important. Communication, balance, problem-solving—it's all part of the experience. And let's be honest, you're gonna need all of that if you want to survive three months together."
Rachel straightens slightly at that, like she's filing it away as a challenge. Quinn just exhales, already bracing herself for whatever this is going to require of her.
The morning drags on in a blur of balance beams, wobbly wooden planks, and too many moments of forced teamwork. The Fox Tribe stumbles through trust exercises with varying levels of enthusiasm—Olivia throws herself into every challenge, Nate gets overly competitive, Ethan delivers sarcastic commentary, and Rachel, as always, takes everything seriously. Quinn, for her part, does exactly what she needs to. No more, no less. She steps onto the tilting platform when told. Holds a rope steady for someone crossing. Listens to Jake's instructions without reacting. Everything washes over her—background noise, distant, irrelevant. But then, they reach the Spider Web.
Jake claps his hands together. "Alright, last challenge of the morning—this one's all about trust and strategy." He gestures to the structure in front of them—a large wooden frame with an intricate web of rope stretched across it, multiple openings of varying sizes woven throughout.
"The goal is simple: get everyone through to the other side without touching the web. But here's the catch—you can't use the same hole twice."
Rachel's already analyzing the setup, eyes darting between the different openings like she's working through a puzzle. Olivia grins. "Oh, this is gonna be good."
"Better than the chicken dance?" Nate teases, flashing a smirk in Quinn's direction.
Quinn barely reacts, keeping her arms crossed over her chest, but Olivia howls with laughter. "Nothing will ever top that. A once-in-a-lifetime moment."
"Shut up," Quinn mutters, not nearly as sharp as she wants it to be.
"Aw, come on, Fabray," Ethan grins. "It's nice to know you can have a good time."
Rachel doesn't say anything, but Quinn can feel her looking. Quinn exhales sharply. Great. The first few attempts are easy. Nate hoists Olivia through a lower opening, Ethan and Rachel guide one another over a wider gap. It's efficient, mostly, until the remaining openings are too high or too narrow for easy maneuvering. And that's when Quinn hears it.
"Quinn, you're next."
She blinks, stiffens slightly. Rachel is looking at her, expectant but cautious, and Quinn doesn't like it—doesn't like the feeling that she's suddenly on the spot.
"I can lift you through," Ethan offers, already crouching slightly, ready to boost her.
Her first instinct is to refuse. She doesn't need help. Doesn't want hands on her, doesn't want to be lifted, doesn't want to rely on anyone for anything. But if she refuses, she makes it a thing, and that's worse. So she nods. Short. Terse. Ethan crouches lower, lacing his fingers together. Quinn steps forward, hesitates just slightly before placing her foot in his hands. His grip is steady, careful, considerate, but she still hates the way her stomach twists as he pushes her up. Rachel is on the other side, reaching up, waiting to help.
Quinn knows she's supposed to take the offered hand. Knows it's the easiest way to get through the opening smoothly. But her body locks up at the last second. She grips the edge of the wooden frame instead, using her own strength to pull herself through. She hears Rachel inhale sharply. Not a gasp, exactly. Just… something.
"Okay, damn," Olivia mutters. "Didn't know we had an acrobat in the group."
"Clearly, she's still feeling the effects of yesterday's performance," Ethan teases.
Quinn clenches her jaw. "I hate all of you."
"No, you don't," Olivia grins.
Rachel, still standing close, studies her for a beat. Then, without a word, she turns and helps Olivia guide the next person through. Quinn exhales. It should feel like relief. It doesn't.
As Lucas scrambles through the final opening, his foot barely missing the edge of the rope web, Jake claps his hands together. "Alright, solid effort, team. Some of you actually looked like you trusted each other for a second there. Progress."
Olivia grins. "I trust them about as much as I trust Nate to not cheat at Capture the Flag."
"I don't cheat," Nate protests immediately.
"You literally faked a sprained ankle Monday night."
"It was strategy."
Before anyone can argue further, the distant clang of the lunch bell rings across the camp, cutting through the morning heat. "That's our cue," Jake announces. "Get out of here. Hydrate, eat, and maybe reflect on how deeply some of you need to work on your trust issues."
His eyes flick briefly toward Quinn, but if it's intentional, he doesn't let on. Quinn doesn't react. She just grabs her water bottle, shoulders past Olivia and Nate's playful bickering, and follows the group back toward the dining hall. She should be relieved to be done with this. Should be looking forward to the mindless routine of lunch. But the tension still sits under her skin, coiled and tight. And she can still feel Rachel's eyes on her back as they walk.
The dining hall is packed when the Fox Tribe arrives, the usual hum of chatter and clatter of trays filling the space. Quinn follows the others through the line, barely paying attention to what ends up on her plate. It doesn't matter—she isn't hungry anyway. The group finds their usual table, sliding into their seats with the easy familiarity of campers who have already fallen into a rhythm. Quinn takes her place next to Ethan, across from Rachel, who has barely taken her eyes off her all morning. Quinn continues to ignore it. She focuses on her food instead, pushing it around with her fork, pretending to listen as Nate and Olivia get into another ridiculous debate—this time about the superior method for making s'mores. And then Rachel speaks.
"You've been quiet today." It's not an accusation. Not a casual observation, either. It's something else—soft, searching.
Quinn's grip tightens around her fork. She doesn't look up. "I'm always quiet."
Rachel doesn't immediately respond, and for a moment, Quinn thinks she's going to drop it. But then— "Not like this."
The words land heavier than they should, settling between them in a way that makes Quinn's skin prickle. She finally looks up, meeting Rachel's eyes for the first time since sitting down. And there it is—that look. Not suspicion. Not pity. Something worse. Something close to concern. And Quinn hates it. So she snuffs it out the only way she knows how. "Jesus, Rachel, do you ever stop talking? Or is sticking your nose where it doesn't belong some kind of Olympic sport for you?"
It comes out sharper than intended—more bite than deflection, more venom than distance. And she sees the way Rachel startles, just barely, before something flickers in her expression. For a second, Quinn almost regrets it. Almost. Rachel's mouth presses into a thin line. She exhales, shifts her focus back to her food, and doesn't say anything else. And just like that, the conversation moves on. Olivia teases Nate, Ethan tosses in a snarky remark, and Rachel acts like nothing happened. But the moment lingers. And Quinn knows Rachel isn't done watching her.
The second lunch is over, Quinn is moving. She doesn't wait for the Fox Tribe to linger, she just grabs her water bottle and walks. She doesn't have a destination in mind, just a singular goal: be alone.
The lakefront is too crowded. The dining hall too noisy. She considers going back to the cabin but knows that if Rachel decides to head there too, she'll have to deal with it. So instead, she heads toward the edge of camp, where the tree line stretches tall and deep, a natural boundary between the structured world of Crestwood and something wilder, untamed. There's an old log near the tree line, half-covered in moss, just far enough from the main camp paths that no one usually comes this way. She drops onto it heavily, elbows on her knees, staring at nothing. She should feel better now that she's alone. She doesn't.
Instead, the weight in her chest presses harder. The space between her ribs feels too tight, her own skin too restrictive. She shouldn't have snapped at Rachel. She shouldn't care that she did. But she does. She exhales sharply, scrubbing a hand over her face. Get it together. A few quiet minutes pass before she hears footsteps crunching through the dry grass behind her. She tenses instinctively, already dreading that it might be Rachel coming to demand an explanation. But it's not.
"You know, if you wanted to be mysterious, you should've picked a better hiding spot."
Quinn doesn't even have to turn around. "Go away, Ethan."
"Nah."
She exhales through her nose, but Ethan is already sitting down on the log beside her, stretching his legs out like he's got all the time in the world. He doesn't look at her. Doesn't ask anything. Just tosses a small rock between his hands, lazily flicking it into the dirt like he's here for no particular reason at all. For a while, neither of them speak. Quinn waits for him to say something about lunch, to poke at whatever weird thing he thinks he's noticing, but he doesn't.
Instead, after a long silence, he just mutters, "You know, if you keep storming off dramatically, people are gonna start thinking you have a secret second life in the woods." Quinn huffs. It's barely a sound, barely anything at all. But Ethan still smirks like he caught it.
"I don't storm off," she mutters.
"You do. But it's okay, you do it with style."
Another silence. Not awkward. Just… there. Quinn doesn't thank him for not asking questions. She doesn't need to. Because for now, Ethan just lets her be.
The free time lull comes to an end when the familiar clang of the activity bell echoes through camp, signaling the start of the next scheduled event. Quinn pushes off the log and starts walking before Ethan can make another comment. He doesn't try to stop her, just falls into step beside her. The rest of the Fox Tribe is already gathering near the activity center when they arrive, the group buzzing with curiosity as Jake leads them towards a towering rock climbing wall that stretches at least twenty feet into the air.
"Alright, folks," Jake calls, clapping his hands together. "We're testing out your upper body strength today. Welcome to the climbing wall."
Olivia fist-pumps. "Hell yeah."
Nate whistles low. "Damn. Didn't think we'd get to do this so soon."
Rachel, standing near the front, watches the wall intently—like she's already sizing up the challenge. She doesn't look at Quinn. Good.
Jake gestures to the setup. "Here's how it works—two people climb at a time. You've got a harness, you've got a belay system, and you've got me making sure none of you fall and break your necks. Sound good?"
A few nods. Some excited murmurs. Quinn just crosses her arms. She should sit this one out. She wants to sit this one out. But something inside her itches—restless, coiled tight. And when Jake starts calling out pairings, she already knows she won't be able to just watch.
Jake starts rattling off pairs, pointing at campers as he assigns them.
"Ethan and Olivia."
"Nate and Lucas."
"Rachel and Maya."
Quinn, already preparing herself to hear her name next to Rachel's, is momentarily thrown when Jake moves on.
"Quinn and Drew."
Drew—one of the mystery trio who rarely speaks unless absolutely necessary. His expression barely shifts as he steps up beside her, giving a slight nod of acknowledgment but nothing more. Quinn exhales slowly. This is fine. Good, even. Drew won't talk to her. Won't ask questions. Won't look at her like Rachel did at lunch, peeling back layers Quinn doesn't want touched. He'll just do the damn climb.
Jake claps his hands together. "Alright, grab your harnesses and let's get moving."
The first two pairs step up. Ethan and Olivia take their turns first, Ethan dramatically pretending to struggle midway through just to make Olivia yell at him. Rachel moves efficiently when it's her time to climb, scaling the wall with practiced ease. Quinn watches but doesn't really watch. Then, it's her turn.
She steps up beside Drew, tightening the straps of her harness while he does the same. He doesn't say much—just a quick glance in her direction before he mutters, "You wanna go first or second?"
Quinn doesn't hesitate. "First."
She needs to move. Needs to burn off whatever is twisting inside her. Drew just nods, stepping back to let her take the lead. She grips the first handhold, inhales once—deep, steady, focused—and starts climbing. The second Quinn's fingers grip the first handhold, she moves. Not with hesitation, not with caution—with force. She hauls herself up like she has something to prove, gripping each rock with too much strength, pushing off footholds like she's trying to conquer the wall rather than climb it. She doesn't think. Doesn't pause. Just goes. The harness tugs at her waist as Drew keeps the belay rope steady below, but she barely registers it. The world narrows to her hands, her feet, the next hold. She climbs too fast. Too recklessly.
Somewhere below, she hears Jake call out, "Easy, Fabray. No one's timing you."
She ignores him. Her muscles burn, her grip strains, but she welcomes it. Higher. Faster. Harder. Like if she climbs fast enough, it'll make everything quiet. Like if she makes it to the top, it'll mean something. She's just reaching for the last hold when her foot slips. Her body jolts, the harness yanking tight as Drew catches the rope below, stopping her from falling more than a few inches. For a split second, she's weightless. Suspended. Frozen in midair. She grits her teeth, fingers clenching around the nearest hold. She hears Rachel's voice somewhere in the crowd—but she doesn't let herself look. Instead, she forces herself back up, hand over hand, gritting through the ache until she slaps her palm against the top of the wall. She made it. It should feel like victory. It doesn't. Her knuckles go white against the wood as she catches her breath, staring blankly at the sky.
Jake's voice cuts through the haze. "Alright, let's get you back down."
Quinn hesitates. Coming down means facing them. Facing Rachel. Facing herself. For a moment, she thinks about staying up here. But then she forces herself to move, loosening her grip, letting Drew control the descent. The second her feet hit the ground, she unclips her harness and steps back. She doesn't look at anyone. Not even Rachel. Especially not Rachel. She just crosses her arms and waits for Drew to take his turn, like nothing happened. Like she's fine.
By the time Drew finishes his climb and the last pairs take their turns, the dinner bell rings, echoing across camp like a signal of relief. Jake stretches with an exaggerated groan. "Alright, climbers, go feed yourselves. You earned it."
There's a hum of chatter as the Fox Tribe untangles from their harnesses, shaking out sore arms and stretching aching muscles. Olivia is already animatedly recounting Nate's "near-death slip" like he barely made it out alive. Quinn doesn't linger. She shrugs off her harness and walks. No rush. No storming off. Just deliberate movement. Away. She hears Rachel laughing at something Olivia says, a bright, unbothered sound that shouldn't stick in Quinn's head—but does. She clenches her jaw and keeps walking.
The dining hall is already filling with campers, the scent of roasted something-or-other thick in the air. Quinn steps into line, grabs a tray, and goes through the motions. She isn't hungry. She should be, after pushing herself so hard on the wall. But the tension sitting in her chest hasn't eased—not with the climb, not with exhaustion, not with anything. The Fox Tribe gathers at their usual table, slipping into place like pieces of a puzzle. Quinn drops into her seat, her body still humming from adrenaline, but says nothing. Rachel still wont look at her. Good. She stabs at her food with her fork and pretends she doesn't care.
By the time dinner wraps up, the dining hall buzzes with campers splitting off into their clubs—some heading toward the activity center, others moving toward the lake, the sports field, or the outdoor amphitheater.
"You ready to absolutely destroy some fools?" Olivia grins, nudging Nate as they grab their things.
"I prefer to call it a 'spirited debate,'" Nate corrects with a smug smirk.
"Uh-huh, sure," Ethan deadpans. "You guys are gonna make a kid cry by the end of the summer, I can feel it."
"Not our fault if they can't handle the heat," Olivia says breezily before linking arms with Nate. "See you suckers later!"
Rachel laughs, adjusting her bag. "We should get going too. First Theater Club meeting—are you ready?"
Ethan sighs. "Define ready."
"Optimistic and excited," Rachel supplies.
"Then no," Ethan replies, but he follows her anyway, the two of them heading toward the amphitheater.
Quinn watches them go. Or rather, she doesn't. She just moves. Casually. Not storming off, not making a scene—just slipping away from the group like it was never a question. No one stops her. No one notices. Good. She finds herself near the woods at the edge of camp, where the sky is deepening into twilight and the air smells like pine and damp earth. This is where Outdoor Adventure Club meets. She isn't watching. Not really. She's just… there. Far enough away that no one will call her out, close enough to see. She catches glimpses of them—campers gearing up for a night hike, adjusting headlamps, tightening backpack straps. Jake is leading the group, his usual easy grin in place as he gestures toward a map, explaining their route.
The whole thing is stupid. And yet— She feels it. That pull. That stupid, restless itch that tells her she wants to be out there, navigating the woods, breathing in the night air, feeling something real under her hands. She swallows hard and clenches her fists. She doesn't move closer. She doesn't join. She just watches. And when they finally disappear into the trees, when the last flicker of a headlamp vanishes between the branches, she exhales—long and slow. She doesn't leave. Not right away. Once the murmur of voices and crunch of boots on dirt fade into the distance, Quinn just… stays. She sinks down onto the cool ground, back against the log, knees bent loosely in front of her. The air is thick with night, the smell of pine and damp earth clinging to her skin. In the distance, the lake laps gently against the shore, the occasional rustling of leaves stirring in the faint breeze. It's quiet.
Not the kind of quiet she's used to. Not the sharp, suffocating quiet of her house back in Lima, where every silence felt dangerous. Like it could snap, break open into something violent and cruel. This quiet is different. Heavy, but not hostile. She tilts her head back, staring up at the sky through the gaps in the trees. It's dark enough now that the stars are starting to come out—soft pinpricks of light in an endless stretch of black. She wonders how long she can sit here before someone notices she's missing. If anyone would. Ethan might. Maybe. He's been watching her all day, clocking every time she pulled away, shut down, disappeared.
Rachel, though? Rachel, who she snapped at, who she cut down so quickly and so harshly? Rachel was done looking at her after that. Good. That's what she wanted. Isn't it? She presses the heels of her palms against her eyes and exhales. What the hell is wrong with her? It's not just today. It's not just this place. It's everything. The memories of home—the nightmare that won't stop clinging to her, the way her ribs still feel tight from it. The way she lost control today, climbing like she could outrun herself. The way she keeps looking at Rachel, even when she knows she shouldn't.
Quinn grits her teeth. Shakes her head. No. She won't do this. Not now. Not here. She inhales deeply, trying to ground herself in the smell of the forest, in the feel of the dirt beneath her hands, in the weight of her own body staying still for once. She won't let herself break. Not yet. Not ever. Because breaking means losing control. And losing control means weakness. Her father taught her that. Drilled it into her.
"Stand up straight, Lucy."
"Fix your face. No one wants to see a girl who cries."
"You're a Fabray. You don't break."
She's spent her entire life perfecting it. The mask. The poise. The polished smile that keeps everything locked inside. And yet—A sharp inhale. A sting behind her eyes. And before she can stop it, before she can shove it all back down, a few tears slip free. Small. Quiet. Almost nothing. But still, they fall. She clenches her jaw so tight it aches, dragging her sleeve across her face, fast, rough, like she can erase the evidence. Because she has to. Because she knows what happens when she doesn't. Because he was right. Weakness gets you punished. She presses her hands hard against the earth, fingers digging into the dirt like she can anchor herself to something solid. She takes a slow, measured breath. Another. Again. And eventually, the tears stop. Like they were never there at all.
She doesn't know how long she sits there in the dark. Long enough for the stars to sharpen in the sky. Long enough for the sounds of camp to shift—clubs winding down, voices fading, the occasional crunch of footsteps on dirt as people head back to their cabins. Eventually, she stands. Moves. Walks back towards her cabin, her limbs feeling heavy but distant, like she's moving through water, like she isn't entirely in her body.
By the time she pushes open the door, the cabin is dim, lit only by the moon through the window. Empty. Silent. She doesn't bother turning on the light. Just kicks off her shoes, crawls into bed, and stares at the ceiling. Nothing feels real. The sheets under her hands. The faint creak of the wooden frame. The muffled noise of camp, still alive somewhere outside. She blinks slowly, like she's trying to place herself in her own body, but it doesn't quite work. Time blurs. She might sleep. She might not. It doesn't matter. At some point, the cabin door creaks open. Quinn doesn't react. Just stays still. Pretends she's asleep.
But she can feel it—Rachel's presence filling the space, the shift of the air as she steps inside. Soft footsteps. A rustle of fabric. The quiet zip of a bag. Then silence. And then—
"Are you awake?"
Rachel's voice is soft, cautious. Quinn doesn't answer. But Rachel doesn't leave. Instead, after a few beats of hesitation, the bed across from her dips as Rachel sits. Waiting. Watching. Like she knows Quinn is awake. Like she's deciding whether or not to say whatever's sitting on the edge of her tongue. Like she wants something from Quinn—a response, an acknowledgment, anything.
And Quinn—Doesn't know if she has it in her to give. Quinn stays still. Breath even. Body unmoving. Faking sleep with a precision she's perfected over years of practice. And yet, Rachel doesn't leave. The bed across from her doesn't creak with movement. There's no shuffle of blankets, no sound of Rachel tucking herself away for the night. She's still sitting there. Watching. Quinn can feel it. The weight of Rachel's attention, the way it lingers, soft but too much. She wants to snap at her. Tell her to go to bed. Tell her to stop looking at her like that. But then—Rachel moves. Slow. Careful,
And before Quinn can process it—Fingertips brush against her forehead. Light. Barely there. Just enough to push a stray strand of hair away. Quinn's stomach lurches. Her thoughts stall.
Because—what? What is she doing? Why would she—? It's so soft. Like Rachel thinks she's fragile. Like she's something that should be handled gently. And Quinn doesn't understand it. Because no one has ever touched her like that. Not her mother—who only reached for her when she needed to fix something, adjust something, control something.
Not her father—who only ever touched her when it meant teaching a lesson. Not even Finn, in all the time she forced herself to let him hold her, kiss her, touch her. No one has ever touched her like this. Like it means something. Like she's worth comforting. And it unnerves her. Deeply.
She fights the instinct to flinch. To pull away. To ruin it before it can settle too deep under her skin. Rachel hesitates—as if waiting for something. A shift. A reaction. Proof that Quinn is awake. But Quinn stays still. Breath even. Silent. And after a long, lingering beat— Rachel pulls away. The bed creaks softly as she finally moves, finally settles under her covers, finally lets the moment fade. But Quinn feels it. Lingers in it. Her skin buzzing from the smallest, most stupidly delicate touch. She stares at the ceiling, heart hammering in her chest, feeling like something just unraveled inside her. And she doesn't know if she'll ever be able to put it back.