It's Friday night, which can only mean one thing.

"Is my future wife in today?" An airy, familiar lilt calls from the counter, and when you emerge from the back, sits none other than Quinn Fabray—elbows resting on the counter, blonde locks falling over her shoulders, and cheeky, expectant smirk resting on her lips.

Quinn is a regular. Though, for reasons probably beyond her usual coveted strawberry milkshake. (Not that Quinn gets it every-time. "The calories in this are enough to kill a small child." She groans, slumping over the counter. "You know Sylvester's enforcing erratic twice weekly weigh-ins now? I think I'm about to drop dead from stress." Cue dramatic slump. Petulant twirl of straw.)

God, this kid. You can't quite reconcile Quinn Fabray; the bitchy sophomore who's world blew up in her face two years ago—and this Quinn Fabray, who has evidently grown into someone so comfortable in herself she's blatantly flirting with her older sister's best friend, over the counter.

"Don't make that face." Quinn pouts, all too familiar with your exasperation, because you've been warding off her school-girl crush since your senior year, and her, sophomore. "I'm an adult. That's like, two years over legal."

The slight, incredulous whine to her tone isn't exactly helping her case. Her blonde locks sweep her shoulders, stray strands plastered to her skin, cheek pressed against the heel of her palm. She's clearly had quite the night. You don't even have to interject, 'and in high-school', because you've both been through this script more times than you can count.

Quinn puffs a breath through her cheeks, blowing air up her bangs. It looks entirely more adorable than it should.