AN:Hi, everyone! I just wanted to take a moment to thank you all for the incredible responses to the recent one-shot I uploaded. I'm so glad people enjoyed it, and I plan to post more of those in between chapters for this story. I do want to apologize for the slight delay in this update; this chapter was a bit tricky to write! It's not exactly filler, but more of a plot-moving chapter. I promise the next one will more than make up for the lack of excitement in this one ;)

I also plan to upload my works to AO3, because FFN is practically a wasteland at this point! You can find me on foreveralover on there!

Now, read and enjoy! I do not own Glee

The CD was still on his dresser.

Finn wasn't totally sure why. He'd had, like, a hundred chances to give it back—probably more. He saw Rachel every day in Glee, and it wasn't like they never talked. Sure, things were kinda weird, but not so weird that he couldn't just walk up to her and be like, "Hey, you forgot this," and hand it over. He could do that. He should do that.

But he hadn't. Instead, it just sat there. Right in the middle of his dresser, a little off-kilter, because he kept picking it up and putting it back down, like maybe if he just moved it every once in a while, he wouldn't have to think about it. But it was there, and it stood out, all shiny and kind of delicate-looking against the rest of his stuff—his Xbox controllers, a stack of old magazines he never read, some crumpled-up receipts from Taco Bell. It didn't belong. It looked like it was waiting for him to do something with it.

And, okay, yeah. He'd listened to it. But not in a real way.

The first time had been an accident. Sort of. He was messing with his stereo, trying to untangle this stupid knot of cords behind his dresser—seriously, why did they always do that?—and he must've hit play without realizing. At first, he just let it run while he wrestled with the wires, because whatever, it was just noise. But then, somewhere between yanking out the dust-covered power strip and almost knocking over his lamp, something about the music made him stop.

It wasn't like, some huge dramatic thing or anything. He just kinda noticed it. The way the harmonies kinda snuck under his skin, and how they really pronounced every word, like, sharper than usual. The songs were super old, like, really old, but somehow the voices sounded like they were just recorded yesterday. The sound of it kinda filled the room, like this soft cloud that almost felt like he could breathe in, but not quite. It was hard to explain—like everything about it was smooth, but not too smooth—raw in a way that made him feel like he should've been paying more attention.

And before he knew it, the whole thing had played through.

And then, a couple of days later, he played it again. Not because he liked it. He didn't even really get it. Some of the lyrics made no sense, and half the time, he had no clue what they were even singing about. But it was, like… easy to listen to. Too easy. He'd catch himself humming random melodies while brushing his teeth or drumming his fingers against his knee during class. It was like his brain kept looping back to it without permission.

And instead of shutting it off, he'd let it run.

He should have given it back. It wasn't his. It wasn't for him. It was just some Rachel Berry thing that he had no business holding onto.

But then he thought about that night. The one where he and Rachel ended up getting food together, both left out from the Glee hangout. It was stupid, really—just fries and dumb banter about musicals he barely understood—but it had been... nice. Easier than it should've been.

So, every time he thought about returning it, his hands stayed shoved in his pockets, and his mouth stayed shut.

Finn was bored out of his mind. Mr. Prospero's lecture had been dragging on forever, his voice this flat, endless drone about... something. Old war treaties? A famine? Honestly, Finn had tried to pay attention at first, but after a while, the words all just sort of blurred together into this grey fog. The chalk on the board screeched in that annoying way, making his brain feel like it was floating, bouncing from one random thought to the next—none of them about history.

His eyes wandered across the room. Brittany was absentmindedly doodling in the margins of her notebook, probably a butterfly or a unicorn, while Kurt was meticulously outlining his class notes in perfect little boxes, like they were some kind of art project. Rachel, though—Rachel was different.

She was hunched over her notebook, scribbling furiously, her pen flying across the paper like she was trying to outrun herself. Her brow furrowed in concentration, and for a second, Finn wondered if she ever gave her brain a break. Did she ever just zone out like the rest of them, or did she spend every second thinking, planning, plotting?

Every few seconds, she'd pause, chew on the end of her pen, and then go right back to writing. But it wasn't just notes. Rachel always took notes—hell, she probably had five different notebooks for every class—but this was something else. Her handwriting was sloppier than usual, the lines all slanted and uneven, like she was racing against an invisible clock.

Was she planning a new solo? Writing a song? Making a list of all the people who had dared to cross her in some way?

Her pencil case was sprawled open beside her, and Finn noticed it was full of those colorful pens she loved to use—each one with a cute little sticker on it. He couldn't help but notice how the bright yellow pen, the one with a tiny star on the side, was always the one she seemed to grab first.

Finn watched her for a second longer than he meant to, trying to figure out what was on that paper. Was it some super important secret? Maybe she was planning her future stardom. Maybe she was plotting to take over the world. Who knew with Rachel?

And then, just like that, she looked up.

His stomach did this weird little lurch thing.

Rachel's eyes locked onto his, and for a moment, neither of them moved. Finn froze, like he'd been caught doing something he definitely wasn't supposed to. He jerked his gaze away so fast that his textbook nearly slipped off the edge of his desk.

He gripped his pencil tight, eyes glued to the page in front of him, pretending to read the same sentence over and over.

Don't look back. Don't look back. Don't look—

He looked back.

Rachel was still watching him.

And then—just barely—she smiled.

It wasn't some smug, I-know-something-you-don't kind of smile. It was smaller than that, almost like she knew something he didn't, but in a way that wasn't taunting. It was... just a smile.

Finn's stomach flipped. What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Heat rushed to the back of his neck, and he slouched in his seat, glaring at his blank notebook like it had personally offended him. His mind felt like a tangle of wires, all twisted up between confusion, frustration, and that stupid little smile that wouldn't leave him alone.

Lunch sucked.

The cafeteria was as chaotic as ever, the air thick with the sounds of trays clattering, people laughing, and the hum of idle chatter. Finn barely had time to chew his soggy turkey sandwich when he felt Puck lean in, his body too close and his presence suffocating, like he was about to say something that would send Finn's brain into overdrive.

"So, Hudson," Puck began, his voice obnoxiously loud, dragging attention like a vacuum. He glanced around the cafeteria, making sure everyone could hear before continuing, "You and Berry getting real cozy these days, huh?"

Finn blinked, his heart jumping into his throat. Before he could even process what was happening, he choked on a bite of his sandwich. What? He coughed violently, his face flushing as he tried to clear his throat, eyes watering from the shock of it. He barely managed to croak out, "What?"

Puck's grin spread wider, the smug bastard savoring the moment. His voice dropped, laced with too much amusement. "What, you deaf now? Or are you too busy thinking about how her mouth would look—"

The words hung in the air like a bomb, and before Finn could respond, the reactions were immediate.

Santana, who had been sipping her Diet Coke, suddenly snorted and choked on the drink, spewing bubbles everywhere. She sputtered, trying to catch her breath. "Oh my God, Puck," she gasped between fits of laughter. "That is gross."

Mike, sitting next to her, looked completely horrified, his eyes wide with discomfort. He awkwardly shifted in his seat, like he was trying to shrink into his tray, hoping this whole situation would go away. He glanced at Finn, then back at Puck, but didn't say a word, his expression screaming I want out of this conversation.

Quinn, however, was the one to cut through the tension. "Puck, shut up." Her voice was sharp and unyielding, her eyes narrowing as her lips pressed into a thin line. Finn could practically feel the anger simmering underneath her cool exterior.

Puck paused for a moment, but clearly didn't care. "I'm just saying, man. You're spending a lot of time with her. People are starting to talk."

Finn's stomach twisted at the implications, and he scowled. "Who's talking?"

Puck shrugged nonchalantly, clearly having no idea how much he was making Finn's insides churn. "People." He popped a Dorito into his mouth, completely unbothered, as if he hadn't just made everything awkward.

Quinn, still glaring at Puck, wasn't done. She bit out, "You need to watch your mouth, Puck." The words were calm, but there was a bite to them now, a sharpness that Finn wasn't used to hearing from her. "Finn doesn't need to hear your garbage."

Puck just laughed, leaning back in his chair like it didn't matter. "I'm just saying, it's not like it's a secret. Might as well embrace it."

Quinn wasn't having any of it. She shot Puck a look so cold, it could've frozen the entire table. "I said, shut up."

Puck just grinned, unfazed by Quinn's authority. "Whatever, babe. You wanna come to my party tonight or what?"

Quinn's expression immediately shifted, the icy look replaced by something much more calculating. "We'll be there," she said firmly, not asking, not suggesting—just stating it like it was an unspoken rule.

Finn blinked, a wave of confusion washing over him. We?

Quinn caught his eye and shot him a look—sweet to everyone else, but Finn knew better. It wasn't a request. It was a command.

He sighed, stuffed the rest of his sandwich into his mouth, and decided it was better to stay quiet. The last thing he needed was to say something he'd regret.

The party was a cacophony of sound and movement, too loud and too fast for Finn to keep up with. The bass from the speakers wasn't just music; it was a physical force, pulsing through the walls, the floor, rattling in his chest with every beat. It made his heart feel out of rhythm, like the entire world was too fast for him to match. People were everywhere, some dancing, others hunched over in dark corners, whispering secrets that no one should have known. The air was thick with the smell of beer and sweat, sharp and stale, mixing with the faint remnants of what could have been spilled liquor or cheap perfume.

Finn's sneakers were glued to the floor as he walked, a soft squelch beneath his feet reminding him how out of place he felt. It wasn't that he didn't want to be here—it was just that being here made him feel like he was watching his life from the outside, like he didn't belong in his own skin.

He spotted Puck almost immediately. His usual cocky posture didn't change, but his arm was casually draped over Quinn's shoulders. She laughed at something he said, a laugh that felt almost too loud, like it was meant to fill a space that was too empty for her. It wasn't just a laugh; it was the kind of laugh that felt too easy, too practiced. The kind that made Finn's stomach twist uncomfortably.

Finn wanted to look away, but he couldn't. His eyes were locked on them, even though he told himself it didn't matter. It was just Puck being Puck. It was just Quinn doing what Quinn always did when others were watching.

She turned to him then, a smile so wide and syrupy it almost felt rehearsed. "Babe," she said, her voice sugary and smooth. She reached out, fingers brushing his wrist with a calculated tenderness. "Can you grab some more beer? We're almost out."

Finn blinked at her, momentarily caught off guard. "What?"

"Some beer," she repeated, her eyes darting toward the group of people who were watching them now. She flashed him the same bright smile. "People are thirsty."

Her grip on his wrist tightened slightly, not in a way that hurt, but in a way that made him feel... controlled. She wanted him to do this. Wanted it to be a show.

He swallowed hard, looking at the crowd around them, and for a second, the noise seemed to fade. All he could hear was the pressure of her smile, the expectation in her eyes. "Yeah. Sure."

Quinn's lips curved into a victorious smile. "Thanks, babe," she purred, leaning up to kiss his jaw. The kiss was quick, almost automatic. It was the kind of kiss people gave each other in front of others, not because they wanted to, but because they were supposed to.

Finn nodded, turning away, desperate to escape the feeling that hung around him like a cloud. He pushed through the living room, the air thick with the scent of sweat and spilled beer, until he reached the front door.

Outside, the cool night air hit him in sharp contrast to the heat inside, the buzz of the party still humming in his bones. He drew in a deep breath, trying to shake off the sense of unease that clung to him. As he made his way to the gas station, his mind refused to stop turning. Was this really what he wanted? He wasn't even sure anymore.

The gas station was cold, way too bright, fluorescent lights buzzing like a bad headache as Finn grabbed a case of beer. His mind was a million miles away, already planning how long he had to stay at this godforsaken party before he could make an exit without Quinn biting his head off.

That's when he saw them.

Rachel and Jesse.

They were standing near the drink coolers, Rachel talking with her hands, her voice all animated and intense, like she needed to get her point across or she'd physically combust. Jesse, on the other hand, just stood there, all effortless and smug, leaning against the fridge like he had all the time in the world.

And here's the thing—Jesse wasn't even interrupting. He wasn't rolling his eyes or making one of those douchey comments he lived for.

He was listening.

Like, actually listening.

Watching her in this way that made Finn's stomach turn—like Jesse got her. Like he'd cracked some kind of code Finn didn't even know existed.

Then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, Jesse reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind Rachel's ear.

And something in Finn's gut lurched.

It was stupid. It was so stupid. He shouldn't care. He didn't care.

Except his feet were glued to the damn floor, his hands tightening around the beer case.

Then Jesse looked up. And saw him.

Their eyes locked, and Finn braced himself for some kind of look—something cocky or challenging. But it wasn't that.

It was worse.

Jesse's expression was just… knowing. Like he saw right through Finn, like he understood exactly what was happening here.

A slow, barely-there smirk tugged at the corner of Jesse's mouth. His eyebrow lifted, just slightly.

Finn's face burned.

Rachel shifted beside him, her voice quieter now. "Jesse? What's wrong?"

Jesse didn't look away. He just smiled, all smooth and effortless. "Nothing," he said lightly. "Let's go."

Finn slammed a couple of crumpled bills onto the counter, not even waiting for his change. He grabbed the twelve-pack and Snickers bar he got for himself and practically bolted for the door. He didn't look back.

Because it didn't matter.

Right?

Back at the party, Finn barely made it past the front door before the noise slammed into him like a brick to the skull. Music blasted at an ear-splitting volume, bass rattling the walls, the air thick with sweat, beer, and something vaguely skunky. Outside, people stumbled across the lawn, laughing too loud, tripping over themselves. Someone was puking in the bushes.

Inside, it was even worse. A shattered lamp lay in pieces on the floor. Beer pong had consumed the entire dining table, sticky red cups scattered across its surface. A group of guys were mid-shouting match in the corner, their words slurred and heated—something about stolen liquor or a rigged game. Finn didn't care enough to find out.

And then there was Quinn. Still next to Puck.

Finn didn't stop. Didn't slow down. His jaw clenched as he stalked into the kitchen, dropping the case of beer onto the counter with a loud thunk before turning right back around.

"Dude, where you going?" Puck called, barely glancing up from his drink.

Finn didn't look back. "Home."

Quinn's head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. "Wait—what?"

Finn ran a hand down his face, his body heavy with exhaustion. "I'm tired."

Her expression tightened. "You're seriously just leaving?"

From the couch, Santana let out a sharp laugh. "Let him go, Q. He's been acting weird all night."

Finn ignored her. Ignored all of them.

Outside, the cold air hit like a slap, a stark contrast to the stifling heat inside. His breath curled in the night air, sharp and visible, but the tightness in his chest didn't lift.

By the time he made it back to his room, he barely had the energy to kick off his shoes. His keys landed on the nightstand with a dull clink before he collapsed onto his bed, scrubbing a hand over his face.

His eyes flicked to the CD.

Still sitting there. Still out of place.

He should return it. Should stop thinking about Rachel and Jesse.

But he didn't.

And he wasn't going to