It’s something that Quinn can’t not associate with home. The way you fit, nestIed in her arms just over her heart—like the space was made for you. How the blankets tangle up, caught in knocking knees and elbows. Hell, even the way your cheek squishes against the flat of the motel pillows, damp with a smudge of drooI. Cute. Fuck, so fucking cute.

Quinn inhales, nose burying into the flat, wheezed-out pillow beside yours (no fluff, these cheapskates), and, oh,, she hopes to hell that was muffled.

It’s a dangerous game, really, and she’s too good at it. Too good at making sure you don't notice, don't realise anything. It’s easy, when you sleep deeper than the fucking dead. (You really didn't wake up from your afternoon nap when those zombie-type freaks came banging at the door?)

Usually, she wouldn't risk it. Usually, she'd sneak out and pad her sorry fucking self into the shitty motel bathroom. Necessary, because if she didn't do that? God only knows what might happen.

Or, well. Quinn knows, too.

Except, tonight, she's teetering just in the right space between tipsy and drunk, to think maybe, maybe, she can get away with it. Maybe, if she's quiet enough. If she's good enough—

You stir, and she panics.

"Hey, hey. It's— s'okay." She soothes, freezing in the dark, tone lowered to a coo. "Go back to bed, baby. I'll keep good watch. Promise." She tries not to feel too guilty for the sleep-glazed, grateful look you blink back at her, and your soft Okay, if only because the list of things she has to be guilty for could wrap around the state, and then some.

Aw, fuck. She’s already burning in heII, and she knows it. What’s one more sin?