3 | A U R O R A

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The relief through my arms is instant as I slide the two overstuffed containers of leftover lasagna into the fridge at Quinn's apartment. Those suckers are heavy.

"You sure you don't want to go out to a bar tonight instead?" Quinn asks as he hands me the green beans and garlic bread to put away as well.

With narrowed eyes, I look back over my shoulder at him. "Are you trying to get rid of me, Quince?"

He huffs a little chuckle before running his hand through his hair. "If I was, I wouldn't have suggested you come over in the first place."

I turn to the island where he had set down our dessert: McDonald's McFlurries. I would kill someone for the Oreo. Don't test me.

"True... You were the one who brought up Netflix and Chill."

He clicks his tongue while snatching the M&M one from my other hand. "I merely asked if you had plans after dinner or if you wanted to come over and watch something, bitch. I even offered to stop and get you your favorite treat, but screw me for trying to be nice after I know you didn't have the best day."

I turn to find him a foot away with a pout playing on his lips.

"Are you really trying to guilt trip me?"

"Is it working?"

"To be determined. You are aware that you could just do nice things without fishing for gratification, right?"

"You could just learn to say thank you, too."

Alright, he wins this round. I give into the smile teasing the corners of my mouth as I stretch up on my tippy toes. Then I yank him down by his collar and plant a light kiss on his cheek. "Thank you."

"Mmmhm, see was that so hard? You're lucky I love you."

Quickly turning away before my grin betrays me, I casually flip him off over my shoulder as I make my way to the couch.

I sink into the brown leather cushions and tuck my feet up under me. Normally I'd associate leather couches as being cold and hard, but his is very much the opposite; It's surprisingly plush and velvety. His whole place is cozy and pleasantly masculine—and much neater than mine. Whereas Prisha and my stuff is an eclectic mishmash that gets tossed everywhere, his is all tucked away where it belongs. Even the bookcase on the wall, while packed top to bottom, somehow remains organized (excluding the few books that are purposefully turned spine in. I know from my snooping that he likes his romances spicy). But much like his couch, instead of everything seeming too structured, it all feels very warm and welcoming.

Before I get too comfortable to move (because, let's face it, I'm nearly in a food coma) I undo the top button of my jeans, then untuck my t-shirt and reach up the back to undo my bra hooks. Fishing the straps over my arms proves a challenge, but it's that much more satisfying when I slide it out and drop it on the floor.

The whole time Quinn barely bats an eye at my behavior. It's pretty commonplace at this point. It's not until he's sunk down next to me, long legs up on the coffee table, that he glares down at my lacy lingerie sprawled gracelessly below me.

Achieving maximum-level-comfort, I take a giant spoonful of Oreo heaven and shovel it into my mouth with a groan.

He shifts next to me, reaching for the remote. "You better not leave that on the floor this time," he comments as the tv flicks on.

"Yessir," I manage between scoops.

He peers over at me, brown eyes catching the movement as I lick some stray ice cream from my lip. "Uh-huh, that's what you said the last few times too." He goes back to scrolling for a few quiet seconds before suddenly slapping it down on his knee. "Did I tell you that the last time I was talking to this very nice woman, I finally brought her over and she fucking slapped me and bolted? Now granted, I tried to warn her—it's not like I hadn't talked about you—but I blame you and your littered bras all over my goddamn apartment." The remote is back in his hand and waved all over the general vicinity. "She didn't even stay long enough to find your spare clothes drawer... let alone your hairbrush and toothbrush on my bathroom counter, or your backup tampons in the cabinet, or your long-ass hair monsters on my shower wall. You make it really hard for me to get laid."

Somehow I have very little sympathy. His shit is all over my place too. Although, I can honestly say that I use the Old Spice-labeled stuff in my bathroom, and the man-sized shirts and hoodies make for great pajamas. Generally though, the people I bring over don't get time to do a whole lot of snooping. Even if they do, I doubt most of them care enough to question it.

"Little do you realize it's all part of my grand 'ole plan to keep you to myself," I reply smoothly.

"Yeah, well it's working a little too well and ya boy would like his dick touched once in a while."

"But—"

"I could just touch it myself? Doesn't count."

"Actually, I—"

"Was going to volunteer? Thanks, but no."

"No, I—" Ok, admittedly, I was the one who cut myself off that time, because truthfully: "Actually... yes, how'd you know?"

He glances sideways at me, a pleased smirk climbing the left side of his cheek causing the faintest little dimple to appear. I used to tease him about them when we were younger and it's been a long time since I've pointed them out since I know he's self-conscious about it. But I know he's caught me staring at them on occasion. I actually think they're really cute. It gives him a carefree, boyish look, and it feels kind of special whenever I do spot them since they aren't always noticeable—only in the right kind of shadowed light, like now.

He settles back against the couch after selecting the episode of X-Files where we left off re-watching... again. "Well, I was joking. But it wouldn't surprise me."

I nearly shed a tear when I scrape up my last delicious scoop of ice cream. Quinn is maybe at the halfway point on his.

"How do you know I wasn't joking too?" I prod innocently.

"Oh please, I know you better than that. You're always thirsty as hell. And I know how you like to blow off steam—which is also why I offered to play wingman at a bar tonight instead. So yeah, I could see you volunteering, even if it's me."

"I choose to take that as a compliment," I huff.

"As you should."

He pops another spoonful into his mouth and I can't help the harsh pang of jealousy that comes over me. A moment later he has another scoop piled on his spoon, arcing towards his awaiting mouth. Nope. I swoop in quickly, grasping his wrist. Making use of his surprised pause, I pull it in my direction—straight into my mouth.

Sweet, sweet, frozen heaven.

His chin nearly drops to his chest. "Hey! The M&M one is mine!"

"Mmmmm," I moan. "That just makes it taste even better!"

I lean away before he decides to retaliate and make myself comfy again to watch our favorite show.

My mind can't help but drift off to what he had said. Would I really have volunteered to give him a handy? Like yeah, Quinn's fucking gorgeous—trust me, I have eyes and a healthy libido—with rugged good looks, sun-kissed skin, and thick in all the right places. We joke around all the time and throw out sexual innuendos like it's our religion. But, I mean, it's Quinn... We've never actually gone there. Even if I had said it, would I really have followed through? Would he have let me? The scary part is I'm not sure.

"What are you thinking about over there?" he asks.

I snap out of it, turning to him, only to find him already watching me. His vision is zeroed in on my lips where I'm biting them again.

"You ever think about sex?"

His brows raise in a flash as he turns his upper body to face me. It's easier now to see the way he's sucked his lips into a flat line, very obviously trying not to laugh at what he probably thinks is a bewilderingly random question. His elbow finds the back of the couch and his fist is propped under his chin before he answers, "Maybe about half of my waking hours. Why?"

"What? Oh, no, I meant, like... us. Do you ever think about us having sex?"

I'm not sure it's possible but his brows seem to raise even higher. He opens and closes his mouth before it's paired with a sudden, wicked smirk. "Were you just picturing us having sex? Is that really what you were thinking about?"

His warm eyes move back and forth between my mine, hyper-focused on me despite his deceptively calm exterior.

"No! Not...exactly. I was just debating the possibility of it."

His tongue pokes at his cheek before swiping across his upper teeth. He is very entertained by this conversation. Which I'm thankful for, considering the alternatives.

"Never mind, actually," I say. "Please just ignore me. I'm being nosy. I'm not sure I even want to know the answer."

"You're not being nosy. Boldly inquisitive maybe, but I've always thought that was one of my favorite traits of yours. You've always questioned things and you ask when you want to know something. Don't stop on my account. If anything, I think it's a completely valid question; it would be weird if we hadn't at least entertained the idea at some point. So my answer is yes, Rose, I've thought about it too."

Sweet lord, why does that cause such a flutter in my stomach?... Ok, maybe a little lower than my stomach.

"Is that all you want to know?" His tone is still playful, but I can tell he's honestly asking.

Do I want him to elaborate? Yes. But also no. If we have that conversation, it's not one we can come back from. And call me a coward, but it's far easier to continue our friendship the way we know it works.

"Yeah, no, I'm good."

I can still see him watching me out of the corner of my eye. I can't remember where he sat down originally, so I'm not sure if he moved closer at some point, but he's sitting on the middle cushion instead of the far one. Which, honestly, isn't really all that odd now that I think about it. He sits there fairly frequently, even when it's just the two of us.

His arm drops back down, laying near enough to my own that his arm hairs tickle mine and cause goosebumps. It's his suspiciously narrowed eyes, unfocused just off my shoulder, that have me asking, "Quince?"

His eyes meet mine in question. "Hmm?"

"Are you good?"

He takes a second to answer and I realize I was right in assuming that while I'd moved on, he was still pondering it. "Yeah. Yep."

"Are you the one picturing it now?"

"No... Shut up, it's your fault."

Nearly mimicking his previous position, my own arm raises to the back of the plush couch. My hand finds the nape of his neck and I let it slip into the dark hair there. It's just long enough to run my fingers through, and I happen to know that he loves it when I do.

See, I have this theory:

I'm not one for cuddles, or any big affection really,  beyond the occasional hug or arm across the shoulder type stuff. It's not that I hate it, I just enjoy my personal space.

And Quinn knows this, of course. He's usually pretty mindful.

The thing is, he is a cuddler. Hugs, spooning, casual touching. I'm not sure which one of the two, physical touch or words of affirmation, is his love language, but it's definitely one of those. Or more than likely, both. Or just all five of them.

He tries to balance his natural penchant for closeness with my preference for space, doing the bare minimum for both of us. But then there are times like now when I know he's attempting to give me room. He sat next to me, instead of leaning or laying on me, and he's kept a literal hairs-length between our arms. He probably thinks I want extra room since I've been angsty after dance rehearsal today.

But he didn't sit on the far cushion like he could've. He's still sitting as close to me as he possibly can. And I'm pretty damn sure he does this when he wants to be close; when he's craving that contact, but holding back for my sake.

Sure enough, when my nails scratch against his head, he pushes further into it. He reminds me of a dog that's constantly starved of pets; no matter how often he gets it, it hasn't lost its value.

The pleased lift of his lips and relaxed droop of his lashes is all the affirmation I need before I curl my fingers into a deadlocked grip on his mane and tug him down towards me.

"Fuck, woman!" He complains but still complies, collapsing atop me so his head is perched on my thighs. (To be fair, they are quite pillow-like. Handy in times such as these.)

"So demanding," he continues to playfully quip, all the while settling in. "You have a mouth; You could try using that instead of making me go prematurely bald."

"Oh please. Actions speak louder than words. Plus my mouth is way better suited for far more fun things."

My hand slides into his hair again, on the crown of his head this time where it's grown a little longer. Heavy legs make a thump onto the couch as he pulls them up to lie down fully. I can't quite tell if his deep sigh is in satisfaction or exasperation—maybe both.

"So vulgar," he sighs again.

"You love it."

"I... feel like that's a trap. So fuck you."

"Feel free."

His face scrunches up, handsome features all out of whack for a few seconds before they settle again. "I don't even know what to say to that."

I give a nonchalant shrug, although I doubt he notices. "It's fine, we both know I won that anyways."

"Mmhm. Sure."

He turns to look up at me then, broad shoulder pushing into my chest. He appears thoughtful, lips pursed and vision roaming my face. This close, I can see the single dark freckle near his eyebrow, and when his vision locks on mine I can pick out the golden ring on the inside of his light brown irises, lending them a caramelized appearance.

Damn it, why does he have to stare at me like that? It makes me feel all kinds of odd, not to mention it's... I don't know... intrusive.

Like the mature adult that I am, I stick my tongue out, pushing him away again with a hand on his cheek.

He lets out a throaty groan full of dismay, but quiets down as soon as I resume his scalp massage. The little simp.

The peace is short-lived before he's turning back to look up at me again.

I glare. "Stop staring at me all weird-like or I'll lean over and suffocate you with my tits."

He couldn't care less. Just a single eyebrow cocks. "I'm not even sure that qualifies as a threat. I imagine there are far worse ways to go than death-by-boobs."

Our stare-off lasts maybe five seconds before I give in with a huff. "What?"

The few moments he waits before answering almost make me want to follow through with my threat. Lucky for him, he starts talking—albeit slowly at first. "I feel like there's still something bothering you. You've been... I don't know, it's just little things I guess but it feels like you've been off tonight. Is it about the tryouts earlier, or something else?"

I didn't think I was being obvious about it, but I have been a bit more aggressive than usual tonight, and I don't remember the last time I was the one to initiate contact like this.

"First of all, sometimes it both amazes and scares me how intuitive you are. But yeah, it's partially because of that I think. Just my dance troupe in general, I guess, has been... less than stellar. Don't get me wrong, they know their stuff and they're all amazing—even Beth, usually. It's just the dynamic? Maybe? Reese and I can put up with each other on good days since I can respect having different viewpoints on teaching and techniques, but recently it feels like he's been purposefully starting shit. He and some of the others have started making jokes. At my expense, or some of the kid's parents, or other team members. About all kinds of things, but it's all stuff that they just have no right to comment on and make fun of people for, including myself. It's not, like, openly hostile or anything though. I feel like most of our group doesn't even notice or just finds it funny... it's just enough to be irritating, for those of us on the receiving end anyway. And I'm only somewhat close to maybe three or four of them, so it just feels a little ostracizing I guess."

Quinn nods along, his vision not once leaving me. He has a way of doing that—zeroing in and giving you his full attention. And as a shortish, young woman who often gets overlooked and talked over, it's a refreshing feeling to actually be heard.

"Honestly though," I continue, "I don't even know why that part bothers me. I've always been fairly social so I tend to be friendly with a lot of people, but my inner circle has always been small. You've always been my one, best friend. And I like that."

"Mmhm," hums. "Wholeheartedly understand. Quality over quantity."

Always such a sap, this one. Although I can't deny the warmth it causes.

"The jokes are bothersome, but it's not like they're anything new, and I can deal with that."

A small, disagreeable noise escapes him, but he still nods as he pulls my free hand up to him, placing a small peck on the back of it.

"I'm still sorry you have to. Even if, for some of them, it might not be ill-intentioned, it doesn't mean it hurts you any less. Especially since I know that the studio and dance have always been a refuge for you."

He stares at me in that sees-more-than-I'd-like way of his again and I look away, at anything else. It may or may not have to do with the faint prickles behind my eyes.

"You're usually so outspoken that I can't get you to shut up. But I know you don't always like talking through things the way I do, so it's when you go quiet that I worry." He says this with a smile, before quickly adding, "Not that you need me to worry about you, I know I can be smothering, but I still do. You know I'm here, for anything. Even if it's just sitting and eating ice cream, or if you want to play with my hair because you find that more comforting than the other way around, I'm not complaining."

My snort is decidedly unladylike—not that I've ever cared. But it helps to break up the tension a bit. I manage to meet his eyes to say, "Thanks. Sometimes I think I don't deserve you."

"Yeah, well, you're stuck with me. Get used to it."


BANG BANG BANG!

With a hand flying to my chest, I manage to stifle a startled cry. Q though... he jolts as if the knock on the door was on the inside of his skull.

It probably doesn't help that we're a good episode and a half into a spooky conspiracy.

We both stare at the door as a pregnant silence creeps in. Will they knock again? Will they just kick the door in instead? Who is they? A government agent? An alien? A—

"Blakely, you home? Open up! I bring beer and good cheer!... Blakely?"

The voice is muffled through the thick metal door, but the mildly-annoying tone is familiar nonetheless.

Niles is also the only one who still insists on calling us and the rest of

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