A/N: It's been way too long since I last updated, but I had this scene in my head and had to write it! I think I'm going to pick up this fic again, so stay tuned for updates. In terms of the storyline of this fic coinciding with what's happening on TV, disregard what you see on TV. In this fic, Finn still thinks he's the biological father and Will/Emma isn't happening. This is my fic, I get to make the rules!

If the clandestine nature of our relationship wasn't alluring enough, we reveled in the sense of newness. Everything about Will was fresh, unexplored, tantalizing. He had only ever been with Terri; I had only been with Puck once. This relationship – the entire concept of exploring another person – was uncharted terrain for both of us. It's been over a month since the snowy night I ran away from Finn, and the thrill hasn't yet worn off.

School has quickly become my least favorite part of the day. Geometry proofs and medieval Europe seem trivial in comparison to what I'm dealing with: impending motherhood, slipping into debt, lust, love. (Love? I'm not sure I want to believe I was in love. I can't afford to delude myself, or so I tell myself.) I have no patience for analyzing the message behind The Scarlet Letter, nor did I even remotely care about the periodic table. The only class that holds any real interest to me now is Spanish.

Of course, it's not the subject that interests me. Vocabulary is easy enough, and I don't mind learning the grammar. The real appeal of the class, however, is the thrill of catching Will's eye, sharing a secret glance. When he pauses mid-sentence, visibily flustered, and loosens his tie ever so slightly, I revel in the moment, knowing I'm responsible. Since I was kicked off the Cheerios, I lost my power. My word used to be law at McKinley. I could snap my fingers and get any guy I wanted. I mattered. I've lost all of that. But with Will, it's different. I'm different. He makes me feel empowered. I feel like me again.

Of course, nobody knows. Nobody else hears how softly and sweetly he says my name. Nobody feels the hot, airy tremblings in the pit of my stomach as his fingers graze mine for just a split-second longer than necessary when handing back paper. It's just our secret, something onlywe share.

Which is why my heart briefly stops when Santana asks me if I thought Mr. Schue was hot.

"He kinda looks like a younger version of George Clooney," she whispers during Spanish. "Hot, right?"

I flick my ponytail over my shoulder and try to act naturally. "I hadn't really thought about it," I lie. "I mean, I guess he's kind of cute."

"He's not really my type," Santana muses, scrutinizing Will's ass as he turns to write on the board.

"Your type? You have a type?" I ask. I didn't need to voice the implication – that Santana had slept with half the guys in the school, regardless of type – but my message was clear.

"He's more of your type, actually," Santana continues, unfazed by the meaning behind my words. "You know, thin, dark hair, lame... Not that Finn is awful, but you could have at least given your spawn better DNA than whatever idiot genes Finn passed along." We both glance over at Finn, who is currently fast asleep on his desk and softly snoring. "Okay, point proven." Santana says, pulling out a nail file and beginning to work on her manicure. "You better hope the baby gets your nose, by the way."

I barely have a chance to respond before the bell rang, signaling the end of the school day. While everyone else scrambles out of the room, I stay back.

"Mr. Schue, I've been having trouble with this verb tense. I think I might benefit from..." I drop the innocent voice and doe eyes and saunter forward, closing the space between us. "... private lessons?"

Will begins to light up, but he stops himself. I can practically see the restraint in his eyes, reining himself in tightly. He lifts my hands from his chest and places them gently on top of my stomach. He is unable to look me in the eyes when he says my name.

"Quinn," he says softly.

I don't like his demeanor. It scares me. I rub my thumb over the back of his hand. "Yeah?"

He sighs. "I don't know if we can make this work."

The power I felt with him was zapped. My throat constricts, but I don't want to let him see. I pull my hands out from under his and step away.

"What do you mean?" I ask blankly. He can't mean... can he?

"This isn't easy for me to say," he grimaces. He hesitates, catches his lower lip between his teeth. "I don't know if I'm the right person for you right now," he says weakly.

"Is it the responsibility of the baby you're afraid of?" My voice sounds far too accusing to my own ears, but I can't help myself. "You're just like the others, running just when I need --"

"It's not the responsibility, it's --"

"Then it's the sex," I shoot back.

"No, not at all! Quinn, keep it down,what if people hear?" he pleads.

"You're not comfortable with the age difference?" The accusations pile up one after another, until I see how many holes our relationship (if it even ever was a relationship) truly has.

He collapses into his chair and leans forward, forearms propped on his knees. "The age difference doesn't bother me as much as I thought it would. You are mature beyond your years, Quinn. You're dealing with problems some adults never face in their entire lives. You're brave, and I admire you for that."

I sit quietly and wipe away the one tear that had brimmed up and trailed down my cheek.

"And if you think I'm complaining about the sex, you're wrong." His serious demeanor broke for just a moment as he chuckled and said, "No man in his right mind would ever complain about that."

If this was any other day, I might have laughed. Today, I couldn't. Another tear escaped, and I hastily wiped it away.

"I'm hesitant only because I don't know where I see the two of us year down the road. Where are we going to be next month? next year? next decade? I don't know if I'm the right one for you. I'm not your baby's father. That role belongs to Puck, or Finn, or whoever you choose to tell the world is the father, and I can't fill those shoes. I'm sorry, Quinn. I'm sorry."

By now, I can't hide my tears; they trickle down my cheeks and make my insides feel runny. "My little girl doesn't need a daddy," I tell Will. "Puck isn't father material; he would only hurt our family. I'm not asking you to be her father. I'm asking for you to stay for me – not because of the baby, not because I need a place to live – but because I need you."

Will is silent.

"Please, Will. Please," I plead.

A/N: Thanks for reading! Reviews, suggestions, predictions, and comments are always welcome. :)