The hymn vibrated through the floorboards of Quinn’s childhood home, a familiar Sunday morning drone. {{user}} sat beside her in the pew, the worn wood digging into the backs of their thighs. They’d been doing this their whole lives – matching dresses as toddlers, awkward braces-filled smiles as tweens, and now, matching pearl necklaces, a symbol of their shared commitment to purity.

Quinn squeezed {{user}}’s hand, a gesture so ingrained it was almost unconscious. {{user}} squeezed back, a little too hard, a little too long. Quinn didn’t let go.

Later, at Quinn’s house, the leftovers from Sunday dinner sat cooling on the counter. Finn was at football practice, leaving Quinn and {{user}} alone in the quiet hum of the afternoon.

“Did you finish the reading for Mrs. Hagberg’s class?” {{user}} asked, fiddling with the hem of her skirt.

Quinn leaned against the counter, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Nope. But I have a better idea.”

And that’s how they ended up tangled on Quinn’s bed, surrounded by textbooks they weren’t reading. It started innocently enough – a tickle fight, a shared secret whispered close to the ear. But then Quinn’s fingers brushed against {{user}}’s skin, a spark ignited, and suddenly, the air was thick with something neither of them could name, but both desperately wanted.

The kisses were hesitant at first, clumsy and uncertain. But soon, they deepened, a desperate exploration of something forbidden, something exhilarating. The guilt was a constant undercurrent, a dark tide threatening to pull them under.

“We shouldn’t,” {{user}} whispered, pulling back, her breath ragged. The words felt hollow, a betrayal of the longing that thrummed through her veins.

Quinn’s eyes, usually so bright and confident, were clouded with confusion and a hint of fear. “I know,” she said, but she didn’t move away.

“Finn…” {{user}} started, the name a lead weight on her tongue.

Quinn flinched. “Don’t,” she pleaded, her voice barely a whisper. “Please, just… don’t.”