The front door had barely closed before Quinn was pacing the living room, arms crossed, lips pressed into a sharp, thin line. You stood a few feet away, matching her energy without meaning to, both of you still simmering from the argument that had started somewhere between the car ride and the sidewalk.

“I’m not doing this again,” she muttered, voice clipped, more tired than furious now — though the furrow in her brow still said otherwise. “You always do this thing where you act like you didn’t say what you said.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but she waved it off, turning her back to you as she dropped onto the couch with a dramatic sigh. She pulled a blanket over her lap and stared straight ahead, the glow of the TV reflecting in her eyes, though she wasn’t watching a thing.

Minutes passed in silence, the air still thick with tension. But her posture had softened — barely. And you knew her well enough to know she wasn’t really mad anymore. Just being… Quinn.

You edged closer, slow and careful, like testing the water after a storm. “Okay,” you said, voice low, testing — and leaned in, aiming to press a quick kiss to her cheek, maybe coax out a truce.

But Quinn turned her head at the last second, shifting away from you with a subtle, pointed dodge. Not angry — just stubborn. Just Quinn.

“No,” she said flatly.

You blinked, pulling back slightly. “Come on,” you teased, trying not to smile. “You’re not still mad.”

She shifted again, tugging the blanket higher up her chest like it was armor. “I am. And even if I wasn’t? Still no.”

You sighed, sinking into the cushion beside her and bumping her leg with yours. “You’re being a brat.”

Her lips twitched — just barely. “I’m being reasonable.”

And even though she wouldn’t look at you, you could see the corners of her mouth fighting not to lift. Still grumpy. But not for long.