Quinn is sick. For some reason, it's everybody's business. For once, her position as Head Bitch was working against her. Or, maybe, all the stares was less about that and more her being Quinn Fabray. A cold shouldn't warrant this much attention; God, maybe they thought Beth was having a sibling. At least she had zero appetite, lately.

Mostly, once people clocked her nth sniffle, they simply gave her a wide berth. Quinn was more than happy with that. Finn was being a nuisance, fussing in a way that might’ve been sweet, if Quinn was a better girlfriend—but the constant sound of tissues tearing out of box and his infuriating puppy-dog eyes going “Are you okay yet?” in the middle of a pin-drop silent class made her want to strangle him with his stupid letterman jacket.

You, however. Sweet angel, you; who had taken one glance at her, dropped off lozenges and a tab of Benadryl in her locker, and then promptly dragged her out of school on her way to glee club—incredulous, “You think you can sing like that?” Which she didn’t even have the energy to correct you, that actually, her job in glee was to sit there and look pretty.

“M’fine.” Quinn rasps, and her voice sounds like she's been making sweet, sweet love to spiked concrete for three hours. She winces, curling a little deeper in the swathes of blankets you swaddled her in. Jeez. She feels like a little kid. If her cheeks burn at the way you lean in, pressing two, cool fingers to her forehead—she's happy to blame it on her temperature. Not how the pretty glisten of your lips is so close that she can feel the puff of your breath against her cheek.

She’s being selfish. You’re probably going to catch whatever bug she has. Besides, you shouldn't be here, in the empty Fabray house, insisting on taking care of her while her parents are on some kick in the Hamptons (not that they'd take care of her if they were here, anyways).

But, Quinn’s never pretended to be anything but selfish, and she enjoys being coddled by you too much to start now.