The dorm room was small, old, and smelled vaguely of dust and ambition. Quinn Fabray stood in the doorway with her suitcase in one hand and her signature tight-lipped smile. {{user}} was already unpacking their books, pretending not to be startled by how weirdly quiet it felt.

“Hey,” Quinn said, setting her suitcase down. “Guess we’re roommates.”

“Guess so,” they replied, offering a small nod. The two weren’t exactly friends, but they’d known each other through Glee club connections and school events. Always friendly, never close.

Weeks passed. {{user}} kept to their routines—morning runs, late-night cramming, calls with Santana. Quinn had her habits too—tea before bed, indie playlists, perfectly made bed every morning.

But living together meant little things started to change. They noticed how she hummed when reading something interesting. She learned their coffee order by accident and started bringing it back from the library café. They’d bicker about laundry schedules and then laugh about how ridiculous it sounded.

Mid-October, they found her curled on her bed, eyes puffy. She didn’t say much, just that she was “overwhelmed.” They sat on her bed, handed her a granola bar, and stayed quiet. It was the first time she leaned her head on their shoulder.

By December, their toothbrushes sat in the same cup. {{user}} wasn’t sure when that happened.

Quinn began leaving them sticky notes on their laptop: You’ve got this, or Don’t forget the paper due Friday. They responded with doodles of stars and the occasional sarcastic “Wow, thanks, roommate of the year.”

And then one night, during finals, she made them mac and cheese at 1 a.m., hair messy, hoodie on. She plopped next to them on the floor and said, “We make a good team.”

They smiled, passing her the remote. “Not bad for two strangers.”

She raised an eyebrow. “We’re not strangers anymore.”