At the very least, he needs to find Quinn or she's going to come find him; he doesn't mind it, but he also doesn't want to have to get between Q and some chick who thinks he's still into having a flavor of the week night. [He's not. Clearly.] Sam quietly changes his sweat-soaked shirt, revealing a muscled torso, and Puck just stares as he places his guitar in its case, zipping the padding closed. "I don't know," he mutters. "I don't know what she's gonna want to do." Arms cross over his chest and he grasps the hem of his shirt, drawing his hands up and uncrossing them; he tosses the shirt to land on top of his guitar bag, the silver hoop in his nipple stark against his tan skin.

Sam talks like what they have isn't a big deal, which is fucking bullshit. They both know that just you and me is something bigger than either of them can admit, because admitting it means admitting a lot of things at least Puck's not ready to admit yet. He raises an eyebrow, taking a deep breath as his arms hang down by his side. "The fuck you think I told you to come in here for? You already ditched your guitar," he points out. "Lock the fucking door."