They've been married for a little over a year before Sam tentatively broaches the topic of children.
Quinn is in the adjoining bathroom brushing her teeth when he asks if she wants any, and she carefully, neatly, spits into the skink and rinses before she answers, drawing her hand across the back of her mouth to avoid speaking.
"I'm not sure," she says carefully, and she notices the flicker of disappointment in his eyes before Sam quashes it.
Or tries to, anyway.
He's perched on the edge of the-their-bed, and she sits down next to him, laying a hand on his back. The warmth of his skin soaks into her palm. He smiles at her, which makes her chest hurt a little, although she isn't quite sure why.
She takes a deep breath and lets it out, her thumb absently moving in small circles over the base of Sam's spine.
The words come glacially, because Quinn isn't sure how give voice to the thoughts that have been circulating in her head since giving birth to Beth, usually skipping on the surface of her mind like dragonflies on water, but sometimes solidifying into genuine worry.
"I can't say that I haven't thought about it. Or that I don't want a family with you. And, God, you'd be the most amazing father," Quinn manages. "But I'm afraid-"
Here, she stops, because she has this superstitious moment where she's certain if she finishes her sentence, it would be as good as setting the future in stone.
But Sam takes her chin between his fingers-so gently, as he always touches her, as if she's just a dream that will break apart if he's too rough-and tilts her face toward his. "Afraid of what, Quinn?"
She shakes her head, mute, and he sighs, sliding his arm around her shoulder and tucking her against his side. Quinn turns her face into his shoulder and inhales.
His scent has been comforting to Quinn since she was seventeen; it's his cinnamon soap threaded through with something she can't quite define or pin to a source, something sweet and simple. It lingers on their sheets and when he's away for business-being the owner of his own comic book store takes him to certain conventions several times a year-she'll wear one of his button-down shirts to bed.
"We can talk about it later," Sam tells her, and she just nods.
"I'm afraid that I'll be like my father."
Immediately, he rolls over toward her and props himself up on his elbow. "Impossible."
Quinn shakes her head. "Entirely possible."
It's 3:18 in the morning, and she'd hoped he wouldn't be awake. The rest of her sentence had been curdling in her stomach all day, and now that she's finished it, she's more certain than ever that she's right.
"Quinn," Sam says, brushing his fingers across her temple, "you are nothing like your father."
Tears are beginning to line her throat. She bites her lip.
"I know you, and you would never walk out on your family-"
"I gave Beth up!"
"That's different," he counters, and the ferocity in his voice startles her, instinctively makes her flinch away from him. "That's different, and you know it. You gave Beth up so she would have a better life, and she does. Shelby loves that little girl more than the sun and the moon and the stars put together, and someday, Beth is going to know what you did for her."
The tears are starting to push their way from the corners of her eyes.
He sits up, turning to look at her. "Do you trust me?"
"Of course," she answers, her chin jerking to her chest, a reaction to surprise that she's picked up from Sam.
"Then believe me. Quinn, you're going to be a wonderful mother...I know that. When you're ready-if you ever are ready...I'd really-I'd really love to try. At least try."
She unerringly finds his hand in the dark, and his palm completely encompasses hers. This was true for Finn, too, and Puck; and though with them she found it stifling, with Sam, it soothes her.
She doesn't tell him when she's missed a period, and she doesn't even think he's home when she takes the pregnancy test. Her scream brings him into the room, and his reflection appearing in the mirror startles her so much that she drops it.
It bounces on the fluffy yellow bath-mat, landing right at his feet. Sam peers at it for a second and then looks away, his pulse visibly fluttering in his throat.
She laughs. "You can look at it, Sam."
He peeks tentatively at it, which makes her laugh again. There is her happiness, but also there's the bubbly anticipation of his.
"Is it-positive?" he asks, and when she giggles helplessly, he looks up at her. "Quinn?"
"Yeah, sweetheart, it's positive."
He whoops, and she finds herself literally swept off her feet, and he actually does that thing she's only seen in movies where the guy picks her up in a hug and spins her around. Quinn wraps her arms around his neck, breathing in that sweet scent.
"I love you," Sam murmurs, his voice thick, and she feels him press his face into the curve of her neck.
Sam sets her down carefully, even more so than usual, and places a kiss on her forehead.
Quinn goes into labor on July 20th, when Sam is at one of his conventions, but the baby isn't born until the 21st, thirty minutes after he rushes into the room with his eyes blood-shot from hours of driving and his breath coming in bursts.
"Baby," he pants, and she grins weakly at him.
Lucas Carter Evans peeks up at them from the folds of a star-patterend baby blanket that was a shower gift from Rachel Berry. His eyes, the same hazel as hers, are fringed with incredibly long lashes.
She keeps running the tip of her thumb across them, across the span of his little cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. Sam catches her hand and brings it to his lips.
"He's perfect," she says, and she senses his smile.
"Of course he is. He's ours."
The baby blinks, gaze slowly roving around their bedroom. The three of them are resting on the bed, like Russian nesting dolls-Quinn in Sam's arms, Luke in hers.
A smile unfurls across her lips, and she draws her fingertips across the same features of Sam's face as she traced on their son. She brushes across his lower lip and then glances at Luke, as though comparing.
Sam grins. "Little Trouty Mouth?"
"I think so."
"Santana will love that."