A/N: Hello friends. Apologies for the lengthy delay in updates. The summer has been overwhelmingly busy, and...well. Excuses, excuses, am I right? But without further ado, here is the next and final chapter - we've got a lot of ground to cover so let's dive in. Enjoy!

"I have to tell you something," Quinn says. They're standing in a sea of frenzied, fast-moving travelers at LaGuardia. When Rachel asked Quinn to accompany her to the airport, Quinn had readily agreed.

"What is it?" Rachel asks, voice thick with trepidation. She doesn't enjoy being told things. Good things, she can handle. Good things are great! Basically, she prefers to know what it is she's about to be told, so she can decide whether or not she wants to hear it. Given the urgency of their surroundings, she can only guess that Quinn's about to drop some huge bomb on her, and then put her on a plane to Lima.

Yeah, probably best not to use the word "bomb" in an airport, Rachel. Even if this is only an internal monologue.

"Rach?...You okay?"

"Huh?" Rachel asks, snapping out of it. "Oh. Yes, I'm fine, Quinn. Go ahead and tell me whatever it is. I'm all ears...and, of course, nose."

Quinn chuckles uneasily. Rachel's brief trip through her own scatterbrain seems to have thwarted their momentum to some degree.

"I…" Quinn starts.

"Quinn?" Rachel asks. She steps in closer and takes hold of the blonde's trembling hand. "It's okay. Whatever it is, you can tell me."

Quinn squares her shoulders and swallows thickly, her hand stiffening inside of Rachel's. "I'm going back to Yale," she says. Her voice is steady, but colorless and flat, as if she'd meant to say something else entirely.

Disappoint rises in Rachel's gut, but she squelches it immediately. "You are?" she asks, injecting some measure of happiness into her tone. It's good news, no doubt, although she'd prefer to know what Quinn was going to say initially, before losing her nerve just now.

"Yeah," Quinn says. "I mean, not right away or anything. I'm too late to enroll in the spring semester, but I can take online courses through The New School, which should transfer over when I return to Yale in the fall. I've been emailing with my old advisor and she thinks it should be a pretty smooth transaction...at least I hope it will be."

"That's wonderful, Quinn," Rachel says. She falls silent for a moment, chewing her bottom lip. "But of course you wouldn't have to go back to Yale necessarily." She watches Quinn's brow furrow and is quick to clarify. "I just mean in the event that it wasn't such a smooth transaction and they wouldn't take you back, you could always stay in New York and...but of course, of course they'll take you back! Why on earth wouldn't they? Everything's going to work out for you, Quinn. I don't doubt it for a second."

Quinn's posture is noticeably tense as she gives a small shrug. "Yeah, well...thanks."

Rachel mutters the world's weakest "you're welcome." She doesn't want to speak those two words boldly; not to Quinn, anyway. No one ever says "you're welcome" to a person they love...spending time with.

A fog of awkwardness hovers in the air, neither knowing how to clear it. Quinn, especially, looks as if she needs some room to breathe. Fortunately—or so it seems—Rachel's plane is leaving soon.

Quinn clears her throat. "So, um, you should probably—"

"I should get going," Rachel supplies, holding up the other end of that heavy, couch-sized suggestion.

"Yeah," Quinn says. She slowly slides her hand out from Rachel's, as if it's something Rachel borrowed that she now needs back.

Rachel feels herself hanging on, even as she releases Quinn's hand without protest. But though her heart aches, she thinks she understands what's happening here. This is Quinn closing off and letting go, detaching in the way she's gotten so damn used to. This is how Quinn's able to look her in the eye and swear she's perfectly all right spending Christmas alone, and mean it sincerely.

Let me back in, Rachel pleads with her eyes.

But it's no use. She can see Quinn shrinking away, practically pulling her sweater up over her face, her hood over her eyes. Or better yet, she's burying her nose in a book the size of New York itself—partly to hide from the world, and partly to get lost in a story that plays out differently from the one story Quinn never seems to want to read: her own.

"So I'll call you when I land," Rachel says. Her fingers tighten around the plane ticket in her hand; the generous gift that still ought to be twice its size. She wants to thank Quinn again—and again and again and again—but knows Quinn doesn't want to hear it. Not even one more time.

Quinn nods faintly as her eyes find the floor. "Yeah, okay."

Rachel tries to catch those hazel eyes, find them. But again, it's no use. Nothing is. There's no coming back from where they're at right now, this point of no return.

And suddenly, Rachel is almost glad she has to leave.

Still, she can't help but lean in and press her lips to the girl's cheek. "I'll miss you, Quinn," she whispers as she pulls away.

Rachel passes through security and boards the plane, not once looking back over her shoulder. She figures Quinn is already long gone, anyhow. No point in proving herself right.

Had Rachel looked back, however, she would've in fact seen Quinn, her teary eyes following her every step of the way as she willed every fiber in her being not to shout, "Wait!"

There was something Quinn had wanted so very badly to say to Rachel, but the words had gotten lost somewhere in the chaotic, swirling urgency of the moment. She'd tried desperately to find those words, searching all around as if she could've dropped them like loose change scattered all over the floor. Now that she's finally recovered them, it's far too late.

Instead of leaving the airport right away, Quinn stands in front of the floor to ceiling windows, watching as Rachel's plane takes off for Lima.

The sun wakes Quinn up on Christmas morning. Squinting against the light, she checks the time on her phone, and then, with a yawn, settles back against her pillows.

She loved Christmas once, back when she was a much younger girl. She recalls presents under the tree, her sister playing the piano, her father carving the turkey.

Fifteen years later, she wonders what part of the country she'd be most likely to find her estranged family celebrating the year's most sacred holiday. Had they stayed in Lima or gone to Palm Springs? Quinn doesn't know, and certainly doesn't need to. But still...she does wonder.

But enough of that. She'll text her sister "Merry Christmas" later...and not wait for any response. For now, she gets out of bed and pads over to the kitchen to fix her morning coffee. Maybe later she'll brew a cup of that cinnamon tea Rachel loves so much. Then she'll curl up in her favorite chair and read a book while she drinks it.

Not a bad way to spend Christmas, honestly. Not at all.

She's got a mouthful of toothbrush and toothpaste when a knock at the door disrupts her morning routine. Her brow furrows. That certainly didn't sound like one of her neighbors banging on her door to ask her what day it is. Rather, it was a more of a polite, excuse me style of knocking; one might hear it if they'd ordered room service at a five star hotel. Quinn almost chuckles at the thought. This definitely isn't that kind of building.

The person knocks again.

"Coming," she mutters irritably. Whoever's at her door is just going to have to wait a minute while she spits out her toothpaste and rinses her mouth clean. And to think, her mother wouldn't have ever dared answer the door without a strand of pearls around her neck. But that was back in Lima. As far as Quinn's concerned, just coming to the door without a needle sticking out of her arm is a strand of pearls by New York City standards.

Bed-headed and minty fresh, she pads across the floor, her curiosity growing with every step. She pulls the door open.

A well-dressed man in his fifties greets her with a kind smile. He looks vaguely familiar, though Quinn's unable to place him right off the bat. Aside from that, she has the strange sensation of being welcomed home by the person who knocked on her door. That never happens.

"Good morning, Quinn," the man says brightly. "And Merry Christmas."

She nearly returns the sentiment, but stops, feeling as if a certain guardedness is in order. Strange-ish man. Woman home alone. Neighbors who could probably meditate to the sound of gunshots and bloody murder screaming. They'd be utterly useless if she were to find herself at the mercy of this very polite, dapper gentleman standing outside her door.

She narrows her eyes at him. "I'm sorry, but...do I know you?"

Something clicks then; yes, she does know him! Perhaps the light would've gone on sooner had he brought along the other dapper gentleman she's used to seeing by his side. She recalls picking those two proud, beaming faces out of the audience every time the New Directions took the stage. Even from afar, they always radiated love and acceptance; just like the daughter they'd raised.

Speaking of which...if at least one of the Berrymen is here, in New York, on her doorstep, then…

Her mouth falls open. Rachel.

Mr. Berry clears his throat. "Well, Quinn, it is indeed very responsible of you to request verification of my identity. Then again, a certain someone would be positively livid with me if I were to reveal too much about myself."

"It's okay," Quinn assures him, her whole demeanor softening as a smile spreads her lips. "It's okay, I know who you are."

His brow quirks in surprise. "Do you, really?"

"Yes, I remember you and your husband coming backstage after Nationals. You also, um, sat behind my mother at graduation."

"Ah, yes! Charming woman," he muses. "Immaculate pearls."

Quinn's smile falters at the mention of her mother.

He continues, "But the way my daughter raves about you, dear girl, I expected to find you riding a white horse throughout the streets like the Queen of New York City. Honestly, Rachel just lights up whenever she mentions your name." He looks at her pointedly, growing serious. "It was you who helped bring that light back, Quinn. We haven't seen our little girl this happy in years, and I want to thank you for that. From the bottom of my heart, thank you."

An onslaught of emotion grips her unexpectedly. She swallows the lump in her throat, eyes misty with tears. "Of course," she says, her voice nearly breaking.

Mr. Berry smiles down at her, his eyes brimming with warmth and sincerity. "Dear girl, may I give you a hug? Would that be all right?"

A choked sob escapes her just as strong arms wrap her up inside a comforting embrace. She leans into him, shoulders shaking as she cries unabashedly against the sturdy, supportive frame.

"Shhhh," he soothes. "There, there, dear Quinn. It's all right. You're all right, I've got you."

Self-awareness catches hold of her soon enough. She pulls back slowly, embarrassed by her puffy, tear-streaked face. But of course she finds no judgement in the kind eyes staring back at her.

He's almost as beautiful as his daughter, she muses. Almost. She smiles weakly, sniffling as she swipes a hand across her cheeks.

"Better?" he asks.

She nods.

"Good. Oh, and you're probably wondering why on earth I'm here in the first place."

It's true, Quinn's abundantly curious, not to mention confused. She hadn't exactly planned on staining Mr. Berry's pocket square with her tears before the morning was through. "Would you like to come inside?" she asks. "I just made a pot of coffee, and—"

"Actually Quinn, I was hoping I could persuade you to come with me." He plays those words over his head, then cringes. "Oh, Christ! Did that sound spine-tinglingly creepy enough to you?"

Quinn chuckles. "It's okay, Mr. Berry. I…" she trails off, looks him pointedly in the eye, then adds, "I trust you. And yes, I will gladly come along with you."

He beams down at her. "Wonderful. Rachel will be so—" he stops himself and claps a hand over his mouth, his kind eyes twinkling. "Oops. You didn't hear me say that name."

"Of course I didn't," Quinn says with a knowing grin.

"Good," he says, winking at her. "Now, why don't you run along and get ready, then meet me downstairs in the lobby. I'll tell the driver to wait. Take as much time as you need."

"The driver?" Quinn asks, more intrigued than ever.

He narrows his eyes. "Now, dear girl, I mustn't reveal all my secrets." With a finger pressed to his lips, he winks at her again, then peels off down the hall.

She stares after him, in awe of his sharply-dressed, retreating frame. In awe of everything, really. Her heart flutters wildly in her chest. Is she dreaming? Probably. This sure feels like something that ought to be happening to someone else entirely. Anyone but her.

And yet, as she hustles about, fixing her hair and face, pulling dresses and shoes and jewelry out of her closet, there must be some small part of her that truly believes…believes she's wide awake, and not dreaming.

The taxi driver seems to have some difficulty keeping his eyes on the road. Twice, Quinn catches him ogling her in the rearview mirror, and both times Mr. Berry clears his throat sharply, daring the guy to steal another glance.

Okay, so she must've cleaned up decently enough. At least by a cabbie's standards.

In truth, she only hopes she doesn't look flat-out ridiculous. If Mr. Berry's perfectly tailored suit and monogrammed cufflinks are any indication, then she is, without a doubt, dressed appropriately for whatever undisclosed location they're on their way to. She even wore her Tiffany's necklace, for God's sake—the one her parents had given her on her sixteenth birthday. That was the same birthday she'd spent throwing up in the upstairs bathroom. The nausea that had plagued her entire pregnancy was only exacerbated by the houseful of party guests, all of them admiring her as her parents trotted her out like the perfect little debutante she most definitely was not. Two weeks later, she was living in a storage room at Finn's house, a stain on the Fabray legacy and a traitor to the father who'd doted on her since birth.

But anyway, the necklace: it's beautiful, no doubt, and surprisingly understated for her parents' tastes. She'd had to dig through a dozen boxes to find it. She honestly never thought she'd wear it again.

Her dress was a gift as well, both to and from herself. It had started as a gift from Puck, and instead of a dress, had been a piece of lingerie. Puck had sent it to her as a gift for Beth's third birthday, to help her feel like the "smokin' hot M.I.L.F." she still was.

It was almost a sweet gesture, in a completely screwed-up way.

The trouble was, Quinn had never felt like any kind of a mother, smokin' hot or otherwise. She also knew better than to think Puck's motives were entirely pure; he'd undoubtedly sent her that dress in hopes that she would thank him profusely, while wearing it. Or better yet, not wearing it.

But Quinn never thanked him at all. Not even via text. What she did do was return the lingerie to the department store and exchange it for the chiffon cocktail dress she's wearing now. She remembers trying it on in the store and feeling some small inkling of triumph. It wasn't that she'd won. She never would win the losing battles of her past, and she was exhausted from trying.

But she'd at least managed to turn a gift from Puck into a gift from herself. That part had felt like a victory, however personal and small.

It's the first time she's worn the dress out in public. And no, she doesn't feel like a smokin' hot M.I.L.F. as Puck would say.

Rachel would never call her that.

"We're almost there, Quinn," Mr. Berry says, pulling her out of her thoughts.

She smiles warmly at the older man. Up ahead, the Millennium Broadway Hotel looms large and magnificent. Rachel would love to spend a few nights there, with its dazzling views of Times Square and close proximity to the theatre district. In fact, Quinn can easily imagine the Berry men booking a room at the Millennium in the not so distant future; it'll be perfect for when Rachel makes her inevitable debut on Broadway.

But when the cab slows to a stop underneath the hotel's brightly-lit awning, Quinn wonders if the driver perhaps got a bit lost along the way. She casts a questioning look over at Mr. Berry, who fishes a stack of bills from his wallet, then passes them up front to the driver.

"Are we—"

She starts to ask but is cut off abruptly when her door is yanked open and a cheerful voice says, "Good afternoon, ma'am, and Merry Christmas!"

She gapes up at the tuxedo-clad gentleman smiling down at her. He wears a gold-plated name tag and looks to be a concierge of some sort as he extends a gloved hand out to help her from the car. Casting another glance at Mr. Berry, whose twinkling eye simply winks at her, she turns and accepts the gentleman's hand.

She remains spellbound as she follows the concierge through the double doors, her arm linked with Mr. Berry's. The hotel lobby is lavishly decorated for the holidays. There's hardly a square inch that isn't covered in holly, poinsettias, or white-gold lights, and every employee in sight greets her as if they've been expecting no one other than her, and her alone. Quinn's so caught up in the moment that she almost believes them.

Her eyes are wide with wonder, taking it all in as she walks alongside Mr. Berry. Beautiful Christmas tree after beautiful Christmas tree all but blazes a trail for them to follow, through the lobby and under a grand archway, then down a long, carpeted hall. Her heart rate accelerates with every step. Thankfully her mother taught her how to glide across thick carpeting in high heeled shoes without tripping. First, plant your heel for stability, then slowly transfer the weight to your toes. Pick up your feet, now, but for God's sake, don't stomp! It was like military training for any well-groomed Fabray lady. Ironically, Quinn now prefers combat boots.

She nearly loses her balance in the instant Rachel's voice meets her ears. Her voice is singing—a spirited, lively tune. As Quinn moves closer she makes out an equally spirited male baritone accompanying her, along with a piano.

The singing halts, an interlude of low-voiced bickering taking its place momentarily before starting back up again.

It's a slow reveal as Quinn and Mr. Berry make their way up a short flight of stairs, Quinn practically clinging to the banister on her left. Pick up your feet, Fabray! Yeah, stairs aren't great, not in her dangerously unbalanced state. But by the grace of God and Mr. Berry's elbow, she makes it to the top in one piece.

Rachel's voice, the sound that's been reeling her in all this time, guides her about ten steps to the right, where what looks to be the hotel's lounge resides, its double doors thrown open.

She gives Mr. Berry's arm a squeeze as the pair of them step through the doorway.

In one sweeping gaze around the room, Quinn takes in the bar area, the tables and chairs, the low-hanging chandelier, and then, finally, the small stage in the far corner. A smile spreads her lips at the sight of Rachel seated at a piano—center stage, as she would be. The man who is undoubtedly Mr. Berry Two hovers over her right shoulder as Rachel cranes her neck awkwardly, looking up at him. The father-daughter duo are far too busy quarreling to notice Quinn and Mr. Berry One approaching the stage.

"Sweetheart, I was merely suggesting that you sing it deeper, brassier, like the original. And for God's sake, use your vibrato!"

Rachel rolls her eyes. "Daddy, with no disrespect to Ms. Garland's iconic contralto, I prefer to sing it my way. I am not an impersonator."

"And what are you two, a comedy act?" Mr. Berry One quips from the foot of the stage.

Rachel's head whips around, her gaze locking instantly with Quinn's. Her heart leaps at the radiant sight before her. She could hold a full-sized coat hanger in the smile that splits her face. Quinn is not only stunning beyond words, but she's here! Her plan worked! Except, dammit, she'd meant to be singing when Quinn walked in! If only her Daddy hadn't decided to Simon Cowell her in the middle of their duet. And what about those rose petals? The concierge was supposed to have been sprinkling them underneath Quinn's feet as she walked.

Regardless, operation "Give Quinn a Christmas to Remember" is going off without a hitch so far. Her Dad has successfully delivered the precious cargo to the hotel that will house the four of them for the next two nights. For years, her fathers have talked of visiting New York for the holidays; when Rachel spent the first hour of her surprise visit to Lima talking of nothing but Quinn this, and Quinn that, they decided they needed to not only meet the girl who'd helped put the light back into their daughter's eyes, but thank her profusely as well.

Fortunately, Hiram Berry is a respected attorney whose wealthy clients in high places owe him more favors than he can count. He'd made a few calls, pulled a few strings, and in no time at all managed to book two rooms at a five-star hotel in Manhattan.

Plane tickets had been much harder to come by, however. And so, late last night, the three of them piled into the car, hillbilly style, they'd made the nine hour drive from Lima to New York City in one stretch.

Rachel can't thank her fathers enough for bringing her to Quinn—and in such a dramatic fashion, no less.

In fact, she's so in awe of Quinn's presence that she's yet to move from her seat at the piano. Both girls are completely transfixed, unable to tear their gaze from one another's.

It takes a little nudge from the Berry men to get them moving. After exchanging an amused look with his husband, Hiram leans in close to Rachel's ear and clears his throat. "Uh, sweetie? It looks like you've got yourself a pretty big fan. Why don't you go and say hello to her?" He then pats his daughter encouragingly on the shoulder. Slowly, Rachel gets to her feet.

Meanwhile, Leroy does his part to get Quinn moving toward the object of her googly eyes. The men might as well be parents of two shy children on the playground.

But the girls aren't nearly as shy as they seem, and as the gap between them closes with every step, Rachel quickens her pace, that coat hanger smile blowing wide across her face as she practically leaps to get to Quinn. She's in mid-air when she worries she might actually tackle the girl to the ground. To her relief, Quinn catches her with open arms.

Shrieks of joy and laughter abound as Quinn lifts Rachel off her feet, spins her around and around.

The Berry men watch through misty eyes, satisfied that all is right. Something about Quinn had struck a chord with them both. Leroy especially had felt a paternal tug at his heart when he'd visited the unsuspecting blonde at her apartment that morning. Perhaps she reminds him of a younger version of himself. Or perhaps he just believes in the girl, for reasons he can't explain.

Whatever the case, it's clear that Quinn Fabray was born to do exactly this: catch Rachel Berry in her arms and lift her up and spin her around, the girl's laughter making music in her ears.

By the time Rachel's feet return to ground, she feels as if she's been around the world in one short flight. Even in the midst of chaos, one look from Quinn lifts her up and takes her someplace beautiful. She can't wait to go there again and again. She'll never get over the view. She'll never stop seeing it for the first time every time.

"Hi," Quinn breathes, hazel orbs wide and swirling with amazed, unbridled joy.

Hi," Rachel replies, her voice hitting a note of mischief as she draws out the word.

"Okay, so...I have questions."

"I have one answer," Rachel says, taking the girl's face between her palms. "I love you, Quinn."

Tears rush to the corners of Quinn's eyes, threatening to cloud her vision. She blinks them back before they get her. She intends to see clearly from now on. She never wants to miss another thing. "I love you, Rachel. I'm so glad you're here. I can't believe you did this."

Rachel tilts her head to the side and smiles. "Well, of course I did, my dear." She shakes her head, thumbs stroking Quinn's cheeks. "Silly girl. Did you think if you put me on a plane that a white pillowy cloud wouldn't just sweep me up and deliver me right back to you?"

Quinn faintly shakes her head. "It's not in my nature to think that anything like this could ever happen to me, Rachel."

Rachel's smile falters. She strokes Quinn's cheek.

"When I came to New York, I didn't have anyone," Quinn continues. "But just knowing you were here, and that we shared the same city, rode the same subway, walked the same streets...it made me feel like I had you."

Standing on her tip-toes, Rachel presses their foreheads together, smiling when she feels Quinn's lashes flutter against her own. "I love you, Quinn. I think I knew it when I first walked into that deserted coffee shop and saw you reading all by yourself in the corner."

"Really?" Quinn asks.

Rachel nods.

"Well...I'm afraid my story's a tad more complicated than that," Quinn admits with a chuckle. "Longer, too."

"That's okay. We have all the time in the world for you to tell me all about it," Rachel says as Leroy's fingers begin gliding skillfully up and down the ivory keys. "For now, though, let's just dance and be happy."

It sounds more than alright to Quinn, although there's one thing she'd very much like to do first. She nearly submits a formal request to the Berry men, asking if it might be all right if she please kissed their daughter—but Rachel quickly smothers that idea, with her lips. Quinn kisses her back fervently, pulling her close. Even with her mouth fused to Rachel's she can't help but cast an approval-seeking glance over at the two men, now singing merrily behind the piano while looking on. She gathers from their winking eyes and approval-giving smiles that it's very much a yes from them both.

They dance all afternoon, the two dapper gentlemen serenading their every step. Hours later, it's a different kind of dance, the kind that no one, least of all Rachel's fathers, are there to witness. It's just Rachel and Quinn inside those four walls, the bright eyes of the city peering in through the window, bathing two undressed bodies in new life, big dreams, unending potential.

Being the semi-adults that they are, Quinn and Rachel were left to their own devices, not to mention their own room, the Berry men venturing out to explore the city for the evening. Quinn and Rachel, well, they'd had other explorations in mind, and opted to spend the evening holed up in their cozy high-rise hotel room.

The lights are dim as Rachel tunes the clock radio to some staticy old-time Christmas music, and it vaguely occurs to Quinn that she has no clothes other than the dress she's wearing. She releases a shuddering breath, suddenly so transfixed by Rachel's about-facing frame, now bare-legged and clad in a fluffy white bathrobe (her dress and control-top tights had felt, well, a tad too controlling and tight). The tiny brunette uncorks a bottle of champagne, fills one of two delicate flutes to the brim, shrieking lightly as the liquid bubbles up and over. It's how Quinn feels: bubbling up and over at the sight of Rachel. The short girl's long legs, the backs of them so smooth, their skin like slow-drip honey. Rachel's dark hair, secured in a messy bun, is unbearably sexy, for reasons Quinn's can't even begin to explain. Her toes curl, enough to buckle the carpet. It would take an ice bath to cool her desires.

As always, Quinn's desires scare her. For so long, they've chased her, pursued her down dark alleyways, demanding confrontation. And now, at the end of that alleyway, with nowhere to run, she turns. All is well. Rachel is there. There's no alleyway, no darkness. Nothing to be confronted, either. Only to be embraced.

It's anything but confrontational as she opens herself up, welcomes love in.

Toes and fingers curled, heart thrumming, she crosses the room, moving in behind Rachel. Instinctively, the shorter girl leans back, the fuzzy cloud-like threads of her bathrobe settling softly against Quinn's chest. Her lower half aches as she wraps her arms around Rachel's waist.

Rachel, who had been filling the second flute to the brim with champagne, quickly frees both her trembling hands, needing something not made of glass to grab onto. She swallows thickly, Quinn's closeness igniting her through and through. Truth be told, their proximity in this secluded space had felt fiery from the moment they walked in, as if Quinn could touch her from clear across the room. Her breath hitches when Quinn reaches inside her robe, the sure but gentle hand stroking her lower abdomen.

It's the smoothest expanse of skin Quinn has ever felt. She explores every inch, fingers dipping into Rachel's navel before skimming the utmost edge of her panties. Instead of dipping lower, she slowly moves up, up, first stroking the underside of Rachel's breast, then cupping it fully in her hand. Rachel gasps, her head lolling back as Quinn traces circles around her nipple, coaxing it into hardness.

"Quinn…"

Quinn kisses her jawline, then her ear. Once again, it's like whispering secrets in the dark. "Hi...I love you."

Rachel releases a labored breath. "I love you."

Quinn's hands grow bolder still, working Rachel into a shuddering, whimpering frenzy. They make their way over to the bed—somehow. Rachel may have floated. Quinn may have carried her. Neither can tell the difference, really.

More clothes are shed, until there's nothing left to bare. Hours later, Quinn's lips graze Rachel's sweat covered brow. Rachel swore she'd stay awake—mostly because she doesn't want their night to end—but Quinn can tell the girl is fading.

She smiles to herself. "Just sleep, Rach," she whispers. "I'll be here when you wake up."

Rachel murmurs her assent, Quinn's promise lulling her into a deep and peaceful sleep.

In the year that follows, Rachel grows to love riding the train from New York to New Haven. The distance is long; well, long for two people who can never be close enough. Nevertheless, it's always a good ride. Cleaner than the subway, no doubt. The seats comfortable, the views scenic. And best of all, Quinn smiling, waving on the platform as the train rolls in. Rachel waves excitedly back, then collects her luggage, happy to have arrived.

Always a good ride coming back home to you.

The End

Thanks for reading!