He watches them over the rim of his bottle of beer; he'd switched after his last shot, sipping it slowly and watching them. All is well. Sam's dancing with Quinn, and her head is on his shoulder, and they're talking softly to each other. Anyone would see them and assume that they're a couple, or best friends.

Quietly, all hell breaks loose. Sam stiffens, standing straight and pulling away before heading back to the bar with his head hanging. Quinn stands, shell-shocked in the middle of the floor, before turning and heading for the exit. "The fuck?" he hisses when Sam reaches him. Go dance with her. "She's fuckin' leaving, I'm gonna go get her and fix this shit." He can't leave the club without getting his things from backstage; he won't be able to leave entirely, but he needs to fix whatever the fuck happened out there on the dance floor.

"Babe," he calls, shaking his head, sending a half-confused, half-exasperated glance in Sam's direction. He follows her, catching up to her just outside the exit; he wraps his fingers around her elbow and tugs her close. "Babe. Stop, Q. What happened?"