A/N: Hi guys! This is definitely a much faster update than my previous chapter, lol! I just had a bit more free time at the moment, so yay!

Enjoy!

xXx
CeruleanBlues

The Housemate Agreement

Chapter 14

Kill me now, please.

"So," Biff chirped as he plopped down onto the unoccupied seat next to her with a fresh cup of coffee, and almost in reflex, Quinn plastered on the most radiant smile she could muster. "What did you think?"

It had to be a trick question; where would she even begin? Could it be the twenty-minute-long act he had recited word for word? Perhaps it was the cringe-worthy ways that he had tried to be a passable Viola without sounding utterly creepy, only to stumble through his rendition of a drunkard British Sir Andrew that ended up being more Scottish than anything. At least his efforts weren't a complete waste. There was a semblance of polite laughter from the audience, even though she hadn't missed the way Sam was trying his hardest not to double over in loud obnoxious cackles.

"Everybody really seemed to enjoy it," she offered, deciding to take the cowardly way out of answering him.

"I know, right?" he chattered on. "It's pretty amazing."

I'll say.

"What—what made you choose to do Shakespeare?"

He bounced in his chair, still high on the adrenaline from his performance—a sentiment that she could identify with, considering she was a dancer—and practically knocked the coffee table over with his fidgeting knees. "It was a hit the last time!"

"But isn't an Open Mike session's supposed to be about expressing yourself and showcasing your works?" she pointed out.

Biff only shrugged his shoulders. "It is my own interpretation of a good play, so I suppose it was me expressing myself and showcasing my talents. When I did that balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet that other week, everybody thought it was a hoot!"

I'll bet it was.

Her face was growing stiff from grinning too wide, and she regretfully wondered if it had only been his gorgeous smile that had blinded her to his lack in personality. It wasn't that he didn't have any; it just wasn't what she had expected. In her defense—and whilst she might seem a tad bit shallow—Biff had been a rather stand-up guy the other day. His charms and God-gifted looks even had Rachel, Finn and Mike in his corner; she wasn't sure if she found this side of him disconcerting or simply bizarre.

A change in conversation topic was in order, hopefully something that wouldn't be too devastating to the evening and/or her first impression of him. After all, the man had gone through quite a bit of trouble just to ask her out again. Surely he wasn't a lost cause, even if he was a little on the quirky side, and it was still their first date.

"So Biff," she began, threading her fingers together. "What'd you like to do in your free time?"

"Sail on my family's yacht, spend some time on our private island or maybe take the jet to Brazil. It gets a bit boring after a while, you know, with being the only child, but I suppose I can't really complain, right?"

Quinn nodded; her suspicions confirmed. Ever since she had taken one look at his designer clothes and felt the confidence that only came from having a very privileged childhood, she knew that he was someone who wouldn't shy away from his wealth. Coupled with the fact that Sam had mentioned that Biff had intended to bring her to one of New York City's finest restaurants—in a Porsche, no less—before she had inadvertently stood him up, she reckoned she had a pretty rough idea where his monetary status was.

Unfortunately, no matter how lovely those expensive dates would be, she wasn't one to be easily impressed by them. Perhaps she had seen one too many rich snobs around—one too many rich frat boys in her life—that him flaunting his money wasn't going to settle it for her. She was far more interested in a man with a semblance of intellect; someone who challenged her, someone who wasn't going to treat her like a prized possession and parade her around at his parent's gala auction.

A flash of movement over Biff's shoulder caught her attention. Her eyes slid over in time to see Sam catching the microphone stand in the nick of time before it could tip over and injure a customer. His co-worker, a well-groomed dude wearing a bow-tie, was apologizing profusely to the stunned group of girls, promising a complimentary beverage for each of them. Smirking with a tiny shake of his head, Sam calmly continued coiling the wires.

"Quinn? Quinn!"

She blinked. "Sorry, what?"

"I was just saying that you should probably cut Sam some slack," he chuckled, suddenly sheepish. "He really was just trying to help, and he's your roommate. It's probably tough living together if you two don't get along."

Quinn narrowed her eyes, wondering where this sudden burst of loyalty came from, because she was quite certain that Sam wasn't Biff's biggest fan, especially with how her roommate had acted two days ago.

"You're defending him?"

"Well, he did try to help me—"

"No, he wasn't," she retorted heatedly. "He tried to sabotage our first date."

Biff tilted his head, skeptical to her accusations. "Why would he want to do that?"

"Look, it's a really long story, and I really don't want to talk about him tonight," Quinn said, wanting to dismiss the subject and move on with the evening. "Let's talk about something else."

"Alright, sure," he thankfully agreed. "What's your favorite color?"

Oh, God, seriously?

"Yellow."

In truth, she didn't really have one.

When she didn't elaborate any further, he continued. "How long have you lived in New York?"

"I moved here right after I graduated from high school," she explained and took a sip of her cold espresso, if only to keep her hands busy. "Me, Rachel and Finn actually, we're all from a small town in Ohio."

He drank from his own mug. "What's it like?"

"What's what like?"

"Growing up in a small town. What's it like?"

She paused to think about it. "Quaint. Everybody sort of knows everybody; it's definitely different from being in the big city like this. What about you?"

"My family has an apple orchard down in Pennsylvania, so going back and forth into the city isn't too difficult, but my mom was insistent she wanted me to get the best education available, so she whisked me off to boarding school."

"What was that like? Was it tough?"

He smirked. "No way! Going to boarding school is like, every guy's ultimate dream," he gushed, beaming nostalgically as he reminisced on his glory days. "It was basically one big party; no curfews, no nagging parents, all the booze and babes—"

"Sounds like fun," she drawled, masking her grimace. "Kind of like college, then."

"I wouldn't know," he shrugged again. "I didn't do the whole college thing."

"But you mentioned the other day that you were an aspiring actor. Didn't you go to an art school then? Tisch, probably?"

He scoffed, almost as if she had said something utterly ridiculous. "Talent can't be taught, Quinn. Besides, what's so difficult about being an actor, anyway?"

Looks like someone had an extra shot of cockiness in his cereal bowl. Rachel would be rolling in her grave if she were dead.

"You know, Rachel works in the theatre."

"Like stage work?"

"Yeah—"

"I'm not exactly a fan of theatre," he groused, scrunching his nose in distaste. "I mean, it's boring and it lacks the excitement of what you see on screen—"

Is this guy for real?

"How can you not be a fan of the theatre?" she exclaimed dubiously. "You just did a whole act from Shakespeare."

The confusion was evident in his boyishly handsome features. "Romeo and Juliet was from that movie with Leonardo DiCaprio and Claire Danes, and I thought Helena Bonham Carter was so pretty as Olivia in Twelfth Night."

Quinn wanted to slap her forehead at the sheer idiocy of the guy who knew absolutely zilch about literature and arts, and yet was a self-proclaimed aspiring actor. "They don't have television in the 1500s, Biff."

"1500s?"

Fuck, just kill me now.

The café was closing and the place was practically empty. Sam was drying the last of the cups, but there was still two dirty ones still sitting on the coffee table between Quinn and Biff, and he couldn't understand why they were both still glued to their seats when it was blatantly obvious that his flatmate was about ready to die from boredom.

He wouldn't deny that he had been stealing glimpses and eavesdropping into their conversation any chance he could, for entertainment purposes, of course, because it was tremendously hilarious to watch the play of emotions on Quinn's face every time Biff made a dumb comment. The dude was a prick; shallow and obtuse, and Sam wondered how it was that she hadn't taken off running for the hills.

Then again, Quinn was nothing if not resilient, and although a smidge of his humanity wanted to relieve her of her misery, he was still wary of how she would react. Another foul just wouldn't do; he was already at a disadvantage, but all he wanted was for them to hurry up and just leave. Kurt had given him the honorary task of locking the place, and he would be damned if neither of the last two remaining customers couldn't take a hint nor be on their way.

With a huff, he shuffled over to the non-couple.

"We're closing, guys," he informed them as pleasantly as he could after a dreadful shift. "You're the last ones here, and not to be rude or anything, but I would really appreciate it, Quinn, that if you're planning to move your date along for the night, to please not do so in our apartment."

She flushed a deep crimson, her lips pressed into a thin line. "Real classy, Sam."

"What's he talking about?" Biff asked, darting his eyes between the two roommates.

"Nothing!" Quinn sputtered, gathering her belongings and rising to her feet as her date mirrored her actions. "We apologize for the inconvenience."

"Why don't we can continue this at my place?" Biff suggested, a naïvely eager tone in his voice. "I live in the Upper East Side, and I'd be happy to drive you home after."

Quinn's gaze flickered over to the barista for a split second as he tried to be discreet while clearing the table and then effectively making himself scarce behind the counter.

"Well, Biff," she began uncertainly, and Sam hid his smirk behind his task of washing the cups. "It's late and I have an early morning tomorrow, and since Sam and I share an apartment, I was thinking that I could go home with him; share a cab together."

That's a fucking shit-like rejection, if I'd ever heard one in my life.

"Oh."

"Yeah, but I'll call you, okay?" she was swift to add. "And you have my number now, so it shouldn't be such a hassle the next time round."

Sam snorted.

"Of course," he heard Biff reply, the disappointment evident. "Well, then, I best be going. You sure you don't need a ride home, Quinn? I have my Porsche parked around the corner."

Sam might or might not have rolled his eyes.

"No, that's fine," Quinn politely declined. "I'll just wait for Sam to be done."

There was a short pause, to which Sam craned his neck to glance over his shoulder, noticing that Biff was straightening his clothes. Even from a distance, the awkwardness was palpable. If there was even a possibility of a second date, it was definitely gone now.

Biff broke the deafening silence by clearing his throat. "Well, then, good night, Quinn Fabray. I had a lovely evening."

"Have a good night, Biff McIntosh."

Sam waited until his footsteps were no longer heard and that the door had closed after him before he spun around, crowing in triumph, releasing all that had been pent up since the evening, simply beside himself with stitches.

"You owe me ten bucks," he reminded her between gasps of laughter.

Quinn marched across the room and practically shoved the slightly crumpled note into his chest, scowling—almost seething with rage—as she glared daggers into his green eyes.

"Thank you," he snickered. "I think I'll just add this to my tip tonight, what with everything that disastrous date had cost me."

"Look, if you're just going to stand there and gloat, and be insufferable for the rest of the night, then maybe I should just grab my own cab and save myself the torture," she spat out, then whirled around and stalked towards the exit.

"Oh, hey, no, come back." The words were out of his mouth before he could even process them through his head. It seemed to be a nasty habit around her. "Okay, fine, I'll stop."

She halted just shy of the door, one hand already on the handle.

"Just let me finish up here real quick and we'll leave, alright?"

Very slowly, she turned back around, brows still furrowed and far from placated. "You have five minutes."

Sam wordlessly returned to his work, straightening out the shelves, ensuring that all the machinery were properly switched off, dumping the dirty rags into a hamper and taking the trash out into the back alley. He came back into the café to find Quinn perched on the countertop with her back to him, an earpiece on and her head bopping to the music. After untying his apron and hanging it on the hook, he came up behind her and gave the cord a tug.

"What the—rude!"

"I'm done," he told her. "Now, if you don't mind, could you please get your cute little ass off the counter? I don't want to have to sanitize it again."

She narrowed her eyes, but hopped off anyway. "You know, Sam, some people might appreciate my cute little ass being on their counter."

The corner of his lips twitched. "Was that supposed to turn me on?"

"Oh, please," she sneered, heading for the front door. "Not even if you're the last remaining organism on the planet."

"Says the woman whose date just recited Shakespeare at an Open Mike session," he shot back as he began shutting off the lights. "Are these desperate times, Quinnie?"

"Don't call me that!" she hissed, flagging for the yellow taxi that was approaching. "And what did I say about being insufferable?"

"That you'd grab your own cab?" Sam sarcastically parroted while he turned the lock.

"That's right. See you at home, Sam."

And she was gone.

Fucking hell.

Quinn emerged from the bathroom, fresh out of the shower when Sam trudged into the apartment, a storm brewing behind his striking emerald orbs, his fists clenched by his sides. The instant his gaze landed on her, he marched over, nostrils flaring and stopped with his nose barely inches from hers.

"That's real mature, Quinn," he groused out through gritted teeth. "You're a right little minx, aren't you? A tease. You lead guys on and then conveniently drop them when you deem them unnecessary."

She folded her arms across her chest, miffed that he was lashing out at her for something so trivial. How was what she had done any different from what he did the first time they met? If memory serves her right, he had once stolen her ride from under her nose. Why was he being petty now?

"Are you serious right now, Sam?" she grunted. "Get over it, already. You brought it upon yourself, and you got burned. I've given you ample warnings, and time and time again you've chosen to ignore them, so here I am giving you a taste of your own medicine."

He stepped that much closer, if that was even possible—the front of his sneakers prodding against her toes—and she fought to breathe. "You know what your problem is, Quinn? You're this wound-up jack-in-the-box just waiting to pop, and it's not so hot anymore. It's just exhausting."

"Well, suck it up, because that's exactly how I feel about you too," she snapped, just as assertive in her stare. "I've had to deal with you for less than a week, and you've already turned my life upside down. You need to stop."

"I need to stop?" he threw back lividly. "I've been trying to be a civilized human being with you, but you're obviously so set in your ways about me, you can't even see that."

"You've been nothing but a conceited jerk!"

"And you've been nothing but a pain in my ass! You're not the only one whose life has just turned about a million degrees."

"This is insane," she shrieked. "You are impossible to live with!"

His vehement expression slipped marginally, a glint of cunning mischief sneaking into his eyes. "I'm sorry, did you just admit to defeat? That you, Quinn Fabray, cannot handle living with me?"

She reeled back, blinking, and was hit with the sudden realization that he had completely played her at her own game. "Fuck you, Sam!"

The guitarist feigned an exaggerated gasp. "Such language! I believe that's an automatic foul, is it not?"

Her mouth snapped shut with a click, her body trembling with the wrath of a hurricane, and in that instant, she didn't trust herself to not kill him with her bare hands. Sinking her teeth into the soft flesh of her bottom lip, she curled her fingers around the soft cotton of her sweats to resist the strong physical urge to inflict actual pain to his person, and instead drew in a long breath of air, desperately grasping onto the tiny shreds of composure left in her.

Don't. Let. Him. Win.

"I'm going to bed," she announced, primly smoothing down the wrinkles on her pants. "Good night."

Without bothering to wait for his reply, Quinn swiveled around and retreated into her bedroom, making a point to slam the door shut.

Where's a trained assassin when I need one?

Sam stayed rooted on the spot, his gaze still locked on the space that she had vacated. He was stewing, deliberating on the guilt that was stirring in the pit of his stomach, baffled by the maelstrom of emotions brewing in his chest. It shouldn't be catching him off guard; he had been triumphant in his revenge on Quinn Fabray, he ought to be celebrating. Instead, he was mulling over the repercussions of his foolishness.

He had won; they were now even on their foul meter, so why was it that all he wanted to do was barge into her room and apologize until she forgave him? Why was the need to comfort her so overwhelming? In one thrumming rush, he felt stifled just being in the apartment.

He needed to get out of there.

Half an hour later, he found himself pounding at Noah Puckerman's door. It was about a quarter to one, but he was certain his band mate was still very much wide-awake. When they had shared the flat before, Puck would pester him for hours to engage him in the most trivial things—a Jackie Chan movie marathon, an impromptu air-guitar concert to the entire AC/DC discography, a milk-chugging contest, binge-watching Xena, the Warrior Princess, attempting to break a world record for 'biggest ice cream sundae', and those were when they were both stone cold sober—so he was confident that being in bed was the absolute last thing on the other guy's list of priorities.

"Who the fuck—" Puck growled when he appeared minutes later, hair a disheveled mess and naked from waist up. Sam was only thankful that at least he remembered to pull on a pair of shorts before answering the door. "You don't live here anymore, Evans, remember? You live in a loft at the other side of the city with a blonde control freak."

"Quit being an asshole and let me in." Sam didn't even wait to be invited in before shoving past the guy. "I just needed to get out of there for a bit. It got quite intense."

Puck padded over to the tiny kitchenette and pulled out two bottles of beer from the fridge, popping the caps and handing one over to the other guitarist. "Trouble in paradise already?" he snickered.

Sam took a long-deserved gulp and sighed. "She's a fucking lunatic, alright? She's got all these stupid rules imposed so that I'd break them and then she'd win the bet, but I'd be pissed dead before I'd ever let that happen. Surely she wouldn't expect me not to retaliate, right? And then when I do, she'd get all riled up about it and make me look like the bad person, and it's driving me absolutely nuts—"

"Okay, wait, hang on," Puck cut in. "Start from the beginning, man. What happened?"

"That blonde she-devil popped into my life, that's what happened—"

"Would you two pussies shut the hell up?" Santana's voice interrupted just then, like fingernails against a chalkboard, just grating on Sam's nerves. Her head poked out from Puck's bedroom and she was giving the two musicians the stink eye so severe, he might've caught Puck shuddering with fright. "I'm working an early shift and I'd be damned if I have to listen to you bitch and whine the whole night. Man up or I'll feed your balls to the dogs."

Sam swore under his breath, tired of slamming doors, and vowed to burn each and every one of it in hell.

"We can go up to the roof if you want," Puck proposed with a shrug.

"Seriously?"

"I still have to deal with her when you're gone, Sam, so cut me some slack and let's go before she follows up on her threats."

In hindsight, they should probably have thought the plan through, because it was fucking freezing up on the rooftop. Puck, apparently sharing his discomfort, shuffled around the corner towards a row of potted plants where he had kept his secret stash in a metallic box. There was a bottle of rather expensive scotch and two packs of smokes.

"You've been holding back from me?" Sam groused as he took a hefty swig, coughing and wincing as it burned down his throat. "Damn, that's strong."

"It's a recent development," Puck shrugged, pulling out a stick and lighting it up. He took a long drag before lowering himself to sit on the edge of the building. Sam followed suit, one hand still holding the alcohol. "You know I love Santana, but the woman has a personality the speed of a fucking freight train. It hits you, and then it leave you high and dry, and you're left reeling from the whole traumatic experience."

Sam chuckled and refused Puck's offer of a puff from his cigarette. "That's one way of putting it."

"So what's your deal tonight?" his former-roommate asked. "Something happened with you and Quinn?"

With a sigh, Sam took a sip of the scotch before recounting the events of the evening. "She had a date earlier on with this dude, Biff McIntosh, and he came into the café the other day to ask for my help since he didn't have her number. So, out of goodwill, I accepted the date on her behalf, and since she doesn't have a damn cell phone, I sent her an email instead. It's valid, isn't it?" He didn't pause for Puck to reply, but rather simply bulldozed right on. "It's definitely not my fault that she thought the email was from some creep in the IT department and hadn't shown up for the date. But guess what; Biff came to the apartment, and then it got dramatic—as it always does with Quinn—even though she was completely overreacting. So fine, whatever; she offered to be there for the Open Mike session. Problem solved, right? Well, fuck, I was wrong."

Puck grimaced, uncharacteristically sympathetic. "She chewed you out, didn't she?"

"She gave me a foul for nosing around in her business," Sam told him monotonously. "Can you believe it? I was just trying to help ease that pole out of her ass."

"And what happened tonight?"

"First of all, I tried staying away, but the dude kept hounding me about Quinn, and then she showed up all breathless and apologetic, and it was almost impossible not to poke the bear a bit, you know?"

Puck guffawed after a sip of scotch. "You have a fucking death wish, don't you?"

"She makes it too easy."

"So that's it?" Puck prodded on. "Open Mike session on a first date?"

"He did Shakespeare."

The other guy choked on his smoke. "What?"

"Twelfth Night, to be exact, and the entire first act." Sam shuddered just recalling the twenty minutes of pure agony. "It was an abomination, and then of course it all went downhill from there. Quinn wasn't impressed; heck, I wouldn't be, that idiot, but for some unknown reason, they stayed till closing time. I had to remind them that I needed to go home too."

Puck shook his head. "She actually stayed on after Shakespeare?"

"Lord knows why," Sam quipped back in amusement. "Anyway, that's not important. It's what came afterwards."

He began a play-by-play of the evening's affairs, from Quinn's rather hilarious rejection to Biff's invitation, to the extremely engaging—and immensely satisfying—way in which he had succeeded at beating her at her own game.

"Do you know what I think?" Puck spoke up after a pause at the end of the story, stubbing his cigarette out.

The bottle of scotch was almost empty, and Sam wondered for a second if he had drank it all. "What?"

"I think Blondie needs to get laid."

"Oh, definitely."

"No, you don't get it," Puck grinned smugly. "She's so high-strung all the time because she's got all this pent-up sexual frustration, and I feel that you should really take full advantage of it."

Sam scrunched his nose up in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"Sex is key."

"I'm not following."

Puck reached over to snatch the bottle from Sam's hand. "Okay, this back-and-forth thing that you find completely exhausting, it's like verbal foreplay to hide the fact that she's physically attracted to you. She doesn't know how to go about expressing it, so she's doing what every woman does: retaliate."

"Wait, what?" Sam crowed. "You can't be more wrong about that. Quinn Fucking Fabray finds me utterly repulsive."

"Trust me, dude," Puck insisted. "If she's not interested, she would've ignored you; plain and simple. The fact that she didn't kick your sorry ass the second time she met you, and had actually entertained you all this while; I think that she secretly harbors some lustful, not-so-innocent thoughts about you."

"And you know this how?"

Puck tutted, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I'm the one with the girlfriend, aren't I?"

"Santana nearly ripped your balls off the first time you two met."

"It's called 'tough love'," Puck deadpanned. "You ought to give it a shot and quit with the wanking—give your hand a break—then maybe you wouldn't be such an unbearable ass-hat yourself."

Sam scowled at his band mate. "You're being a dick."

"And you're being a fucking coward. This is war, Sam, and you need a plan of attack. Quinn has one—she probably has a million more—but if there's one thing worse than hate, it's hurt. Make her fall in love with you; seduce her into bed and then break her heart."

"Just why do you think that's a good idea, exactly?"

"See, right now, you both have similar strategies; to repel each other, grate on each other's nerves enough until one of you snap, and that's good and all, but you're working within a time frame, and I hate to break it to you but women have the stubbornness and patience of an alligator," Puck went on, his tone laced with slight bitterness, probably from his own experience with Santana. "So what you're going to do is the total opposite. Be the best fucking roommate ever, win her over, and then she wouldn't know what to do with herself."

"I don't know, dude," Sam muttered, pondering on the different scenarios that he would ultimately be entangled with. "Playing with a girl's feelings can be a bit messy and way too much trouble."

"Think about it, Sam: Free rent and a chance at gloating to your heart's content."

The prospect was incredibly tempting, not to mention the amount of entertainment that it might possibly bring to his rather uneventful life, and it wasn't as if he had suddenly sprouted a conscience and jeopardize his win. He went into this bet determined to walk out of it victorious, and there was no way in hell he would surrender in the hands of Quinn Fabray.

"Okay, so what's next?"

A/N: So, there are a couple of developments in this chapter. Bye-bye Biff! We might or might not see the last of him, but he's not going to be a threat anymore, now that he's actually a bore to be with. Sam managed to wrangle a foul out of Quinn even though it was a cheap shot on his part. And a change in game plan, compliments of Noah Puckerman, so we can expect things to be really interesting from here on.

NileyOvergron: Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving a review! I really appreciate it, and although sexy times between Fabrevans isn't going to happen so soon, rest assured, it's well on its way! Hope you've enjoyed this update! Cheers!

CarefreeCanary: Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it! I'm glad you like how I've portrayed the characters, especially their dynamics! It's been such fun to write, and now that things have shifted, it's going to be even more interesting!

Dosqueen67: Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving a review! As always, I really appreciate it! I don't foresee me not finishing this story; it's been fun writing it so far! Hope you've enjoyed this chapter! Cheers!

RJRRAA: Hello there! As always, thank you so much for reading and leaving such a wonderful review! I love that Sam knows which buttons to push to rile Quinn up, but I'm excited about what he's going to do next now that he has a change in game plan! Hope you've enjoyed this update! Cheers!

Guest [1]: Sorry, what?

Guest [2]: Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving such a lovely lengthy review! I really appreciate it, and I'm flattered and incredibly humbled by your wonderful comments! I love that you mentioned how Quinn would pop Sam's ego with her neatly manicured nails! LOL! They are both definitely equal contenders, both equally as stubborn as each other, and both with equally large egos. Sexy Fabrevans time wouldn't happen for a bit, but the premises have been set for a shift in dynamics between them, especially now that Sam has changed his game plan and attempt to seduce Quinn. LOL! I can't wait to write those moments! Hope you've enjoyed this chapter! Cheers!

Guest [3]: Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it, and thank you so much for the lovely comments! I'm glad you've enjoyed my works so far! Cheers!

Ssauers: Hi there! Thank you for reading and leaving a review! I really appreciate it! Glad you like the story so far! Cheers!