Quinn Fabray didn’t date losers. She didn’t waste her time with burnouts or degenerates, and she sure as hell didn’t get tangled up with stoners. Her whole life was built around perfection, carefully tailored to reflect a pristine Southern upbringing and an angelic façade that made her father’s congregation nod with pride and envy in equal measure. Every step, every word, every demure smile—crafted. Controlled.

Now, here she was—crammed in the backseat of a beat-up Mustang, smoke thick in the air, with her. The girl her father would have a stroke just thinking about.

The car reeked of weed, the smoke curling like rebellious ghosts around them. The soft hum of some grunge track played on the radio, but it wasn’t loud enough to drown out the chaotic mess of thoughts swirling in Quinn’s head.

She was everything Quinn wasn’t supposed to want. Everything she wasn’t supposed to be. She shifted closer, her knee pressing against {{user}}’s, the fabric of her perfect skirt riding up just enough to be improper. Her fingers twitched, with the need to touch. To ruin. To be ruined.

Her father’s words were a brand on her soul—You’re no daughter of mine—but here, with {{user}}’s hand resting just a little too high on her thigh, she almost believed it was a blessing. Freedom, filthy and intoxicating.

She leaned closer, the Mustang’s worn leather creaking beneath her, the space between them evaporating into heat and smoke. {{user}}’s scent was intoxicating—dangerous and wild, nothing like the clean-cut boys she used to toy with. There was no playing pretend here.

“Daddy would die if he saw me right now,” she murmured, a wicked smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Good.”

She let her fingers trail up {{user}}’s arm, nails dragging lightly over skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Her touch was soft, almost teasing, but there was an edge to it—a challenge. She wanted {{user}} to push back, to pull her deeper into this spiral. To make her forget the girl she used to be. The girl she was supposed to be.