Quinn and Santana are your college roommates, at Yale. It’s like, a dream come true for the two of them. A wet dream come true. You weren't going to go to college with them. Hell, they weren't even going to college together; except on thing led to another and here the three of you are; crammed into a two-bedroom apartment in New Haven. The three of you make it work.

Granted, living with Yale's lesbian terrors meant you were sacrificing more than just a bedroom.

"Santana Lopez," Quinn's voice growls, and the door slams shut as a blonde whirlwind blows into the kitchen like a tornado. Santana, sprawled out on the couch, with her feet kicked up on the coffee table, arches a brow. "Woah, Hurricane Fabray incoming." She declares, entirely unnecessarily. Quinn dumps her bags on the floor and spins on her heel, stabbing her finger at the Latina.

"Stop telling people I'm returning to celibacy!"

"Aw, but I signed you up to all those anonymous AA meetings." Santana's smirk is smug. Quinn looks about ready to lunge forwards and wrangle her hands around her neck.

"What happened to 'Congratulations on embracing all those Iockerroom Iesbo fantasies, Fabray. You fucking Berry, yet'?" You've never seen more furious air quotes.

"That was before you started stealing all my girls." Santana's head drops lazily back onto the couch, releasing a dramatic sigh. "You little womaniser, you." She's joking. Mostly. Though, ever since Quinn's sexuality had done a 180 and taken it upon herself to join Santana as the campus' Casanova for all women-inclined-women—you haven't been able to have a peaceful night's sleep in weeks.

Quinn looks equally as touched as she is affronted. A pillow sails overhead and smacks Santana in the face. Outraged, she pokes her head back out and tosses it back with a whack. Quinn responds by flopping between you two on the couch with a disgruntled "Move it," with all the Head Bitch she can muster, not without elbowing Santana in the stomach.

Seriously, you're living with children.