Enough | ✔️

+ 15 +

I sit up again, running a hand through my tangled, damp hair and using the other to trap the towel to my chest as it threatens to fall from me leaning forward. As soon as I do, the sudden movement causes my dizziness to return. I shut my eyes tight.

"Whoa, Quorra?" I hear Professor Hartley ask before a warm hand presses against my very bare back and another grips my shoulder to gently push me back against the headboard, "Are you alright?"

I mumble out a reply, still recovering from the upside-down feeling, "Dizzy."

He removes a hand to press it to my forehead, "Are you sick?" he questions, concern thick in his voice, "We should get you dressed if you're cold."

I take a deep breath and imagine the dizziness disappearing down a drain. I reopen my eyes to look at Professor Hartley, "As much as I would love for you to dress me, Professor Hartley, I think I'm fine to dress myself."

I look left and right, furrowing my eyebrows.

"Wait, it doesn't sound like it but I swear that was sarcastic," I add.

That same smile settles on his chiselled features, "Okay. And it's 'sir', Quorra, though I'm starting to think you call me by the wrong title on purpose."

I gladly accept the diversion from my bad phrasing, staying frozen in place to will the throbbing in my head away, "Calling you 'sir' is so... weird. We aren't in a lecture so how about we compromise and I call you Slater?" 

Neither of us expect my upfront question. Professor Hartley glances down for a moment, wondering, "I suppose that would be satisfactory outside of lectures. Within them, however, I'd still prefer 'sir'."

I roll my eyes, "Alright then, Slater," I emphasise, the name fitting him perfectly.

Pressing a hand to the back of my head, I wince, touching a sore spot, "The shower head came loose and dropped on my head so I dropped the razor," I explain, eyes half closed in pain.

Slater stands up, leaning a knee next to me on the bed to inspect the back of my head. He sharply inhales as he spots the site of injury, tilting my head down slightly to get a better look.

"It looks like it might form a bump," he informs, "I'll get ice."

I nod reluctantly and he leaves the room, pausing to shoot me a fleeting glance. Second guessing himself, he grabs his blazer and pulls it on, messing with his hair a little before opening the door. With a roll of my eyes, he leaves. For such an intellectual, mature individual, he sure cares about what others think of him. Don't we all though?

A few minutes pass before I look down and am reminded of the simple towel covering me.

Alone in the room, I seize the opportunity to stand up, slowly easing off the bed and ignoring the aching in my head as my towel drops. I don't pick it up, predicting the headache bending down would bring.

Anxious at my lack of any clothing, I hurry over to my drawer and pick out undergarments and a large shirt, knowing my cuts still have to be tended to. I throw my mismatched bra and underwear on with some difficulty, the wounds threatening to open with every slight movement of mine.

The buzz from the door alerts me that Slater is back. Somehow feeling just as embarrassed at the prospect of being caught in undergarments as being caught with only a towel on, I tug the shirt over my head.

It falls over my body just as the seal of the door is broken and Slater steps in, but the way his eyes dart away for a split second tells me I barely made it.

He holds an icepack in his hands and lifts it to my eye level, "Found one. Why are you up?"

I laugh at the question, not appreciating the fire it ignites in my head as I wonder back to my bed, "I decided to dress myself, is that alright?"