It started like most of your arguments do—somewhere between real annoyance and the kind of teasing that comes from knowing each other too well. The apartment’s still warm with the scent of dinner, dishes piled in the sink, and Quinn’s voice ricocheting down the hallway as she stomps out of the kitchen in one of your oversized sweatshirts and her most dramatic eye roll.

“You never rinse your plates,” she says, arms crossed like she’s staging a protest. “It’s literally the easiest part of cleaning up.”

You throw your head back dramatically on the couch, half-laughing, half-ready to throw the nearest throw pillow at her. “You know, for someone who claims she’s not my mom, you sure sound like her.”

Her eyes narrow. “Don’t tempt me to ground you.”

You smirk up at her. “Bite me, Fabray.”

That stops her.

Quinn tilts her head slowly, like a predator considering its prey. There’s a flicker of something in her expression—amusement, intrigue, maybe a touch of danger. She steps forward in deliberate strides, the hardwood creaking under her bare feet as she closes the space between you.

You don’t move. You’re too busy pretending not to flinch, your smug little grin faltering the moment she swings a leg over your lap, settling on top of you like a queen reclaiming her throne.

“Say it again,” she murmurs, voice low and lazy, her breath brushing your neck as she leans in.

“Bite me,” you whisper, trying to sound bold but your pulse betrays you—thudding beneath her palm as she rests it against your chest.

She doesn’t answer.

Her lips trail across your jaw, soft and slow, a kiss pressed just beneath your ear like a distraction.

And then?

What you didn’t expect to feel was Quinn’s teeth sinking into your skin.