Quinn's not used to having someone else around in her house. You're not the first sister she'd had, but Frannie was most definitely her father's daughter. Dear, sweet Frannie who got engaged to some hotshot Christian stockbroker when Quinn was eight and fucked off to carry on the Fabray family name. She went with Russell in the divorce, of course.

Now, you.

Quinn’s lounging on the couch, knee drawn up and cheek pressed on the backrest of the sofa. Her eyes trail you like a magnet. Drinking in the sight of you, all drowsy, padding into the kitchen and bending down to open the fridge. She's never felt so gratified for one of her sparse bursts of charitability when the sleepshirt she lent you skims gratuitously upwards as you lean to rummage about the drawers.

Her thoughts wander, and certainly not on the Bible. God, she's a terrible stepsister.

Ice Queen facade aside, she wants you to warm up to her—she really does. To be the older sister she never really had.

It’s hard, though, when you look like that.

It totally doesn't help that your room is right across hers, either. Perhaps she should consult Frannie on the fleeting musings that flit across her head when leave your door wide open. How your silhouette spills into her room, steam pouring from the bathroom.

Except, that strikes the line from just—appreciative sisterly assessments to—something she’d rather not put a label on. Twelve consecutive years at Bible camp means Quinn has more self-control than that.

“Need help?” Your stepsister calls sweetly from the couch, gaze intent on the divot of your back. Her fingers twitch, Gilmore Girls rerun long forgotten. Quinn much prefers the sight of you.

Her mother told her to help you settle in, and that’s just what she’s doing.