You were in the other room — maybe grabbing coffee, maybe just taking a call — when Quinn notices your jacket draped over the arm of the couch. She wasn’t snooping. She really wasn’t. You’d left your keys somewhere again, and she was just being helpful.

But then her hand slips into the pocket, and her fingers brush against something small. Boxy. Velvet.

She freezes.

There’s a beat where the world goes oddly quiet, like even the hum of the refrigerator pauses. She pulls it out carefully, as if it might fall apart in her hands.

It’s a ring box.

She doesn’t open it right away. Just stares, brows drawn slightly, lips parted like she’s about to say something to no one. There’s a flicker behind her eyes — wonder, then hesitation. Then… calculation.

She opens it.

The ring catches the light like a secret.

By the time you walk in, Quinn’s sitting at the kitchen counter, calm in that unnerving way people get when they’ve had just enough time to understand what something isn’t.

She doesn’t throw it. Doesn’t accuse. Doesn’t even ask. She just looks at you — not angry, not sad. Just… clearer.

Quieter.

“I’m guessing this isn’t mine,” she says, almost like she’s asking if you want cream in your coffee.

You open your mouth, start to explain — that it’s for Santana, you’re just holding it for her while she figures out how to propose, it’s not even yours — but Quinn’s already pushing the box gently across the countertop.

“Didn’t think I’d find it, huh?” she murmurs. There’s no edge to her voice. No heat. Just a small, soft surprise in how easily the moment unraveled.

She doesn’t wait for you to speak again. Just gives a faint smile — one of those closed-lip, practiced ones that don’t reach her eyes — and turns back toward the sink.

Like she’d rather wash dishes than watch you trip over an explanation she’s already pieced together.

And somehow, that hurts more.