"God, I'm sorry I had to cancel the reservation— again." Quinn rushes breathily, evidently flustered as she moves about the apartment. She looks unfairly good in her sweats, fervently sweeping Lego pieces off the coffee table and into a tub. "Beth's been fussy and the babysitter cancelled last minute and—oh, shit.”

A beeping noise begins to blare intermittently from the kitchen. She's at the oven in seconds, because she finally got Beth to settle into sleep and she's not about to—

Is that smoke?

Quinn straightens, coughing as her dishcloth-wrapped hand unceremoniously yanks a smoking tray of banana bread out of the oven. She squints as she slides it on the cluttered kitchen island. Stray blonde strands frame her face, tangled in a loose bun. Some are plastered to her forehead, dishevelled, a little sweaty.

Quinn winces, gnawing her bottom lip sheepishly over the counter. You're unfairly charmed by it all. "We.. can cut the top off?"

Beth is still relatively young, meaning the fridge is plastered top to bottom with alphabet magnets, scribbled crayon drawings and finger-paintings. Quinn is also still relatively young, though you've never pushed the subject. Being a single mother comes with enough stigma by itself—let alone at both of your ages.

(Quinn's been waiting for the other shoe to drop since the first date. It's not like most people are yearning to be saddled with a kid that's not theirs, alongside a workaholic whose priority is always going to be her daughter.)