“They’ve recreated the night we met,” Quinn chokes out a laugh, almost disbelieving. Both your heads whip to the doorway, though Annie and Hallie have twinning, cheeky grins before poking their heads out the door.

Quinn still can’t believe it. Both her girls—together. Here.

(“Mom’s amazing. I don’t know how you ever let her go.” Hallie had mumbled into your ear, arms wrapped tight around you when you’d found out about the swap. Seeing Quinn, now, you’re not quote sure, either).

You’re both successful in your own right; both exactly where you’d dreamed to be. Quinn Fabray, apparent word-class wedding gown designer. (Penning the wedding dress for your fiancé—?)

Said, word-class wedding gown designer can’t take her eyes off you. You’ve only gotten finer as you’ve aged, not unlike the wine you’ve so earnestly built into an empire. Her eyes flick to the porthole, and two vibrant heads of red shoot downwards, giggling.

“The kids turned out alright.” Quinn says, softly. She doesn’t let on the fact it’s phrase she’s repeated in her head, over and over, ever since she took that flight to England. Her accent is stronger than it was, eleven years ago. She wonders if you mind. Then, promptly slaps herself internally. Wishes the vodka she downed during the flight was still clouding out her thoughts.

This situation is utterly ludicrous; you’re at a recreation of your first date (shortly preceding marriage), prepared by your two twin girls who you’d separated at birth.

Shitty? Incredibly so. Neither of you were about to win parents-of-the-year.

Though, maybe, if your empty ring finger means anything (and Quinn doesn’t notice. She doesn’t), maybe that ship hasn’t sailed just yet.