Enough | ✔️

+ 25 +

By the time night rolls around, I'm clawing my eyes out. I go to bed much earlier than usual but find myself turning left and right, eager for sleep but not able to fall into its grasp.

At around 10pm, the door opens and Slater walks in, filling the room with blinding light.

I close my eyes and desperately hope that my chest rises and falls at a convincing, I'm-most-definitely-asleep speed.

It must do because before I know it, he's undressing.

And I'm dying.

I peek every few seconds, unable to help himself.

His tie is the first to go, and he sighs while removing it from his neck as if it was suffocating him the whole day. His shirt goes next, button by torturous button.

Even in the dark room, the only light source being the light from the open bathroom door, the defined planes of muscle adorning his tanned skin are noticeable.

He glances over at me to ensure my unconsciousness (I close my eyes just in time) before stripping his trousers and replacing them with shorts. I make sure not to zero in on a certain body part on his toned body, squeezing my eyes shut tightly.

Is this how he sleeps every night? If so, man, I should start waking up earlier than him.

He slides into bed moments later, and I instantly regret my decision to face his side rather than the wall. Shuffling continues for a few seconds before he finds a comfortable position.

That position just so happens to be facing me.

As I find out after opening my eyes.

My eyes widen further as I realise his eyes are also open, and staring right at me.

"Uh, hi."

So suave, Quorra. You are smoother than fucking silk.

"Hello," Slater greets back, deep voice and smooth-as-chocolate tone even more enrapturing in the silence of the room, "Were you... awake just now?"

A sudden thought saves me from an embarrassing conversation.

"No. Hey, you never told me your middle name after dinner with Lucas," I state, "What is it?"

I'm glad it's not my turn to speak, because one glance at his exposed upper chest has me wishing I faked sleeping for longer. Oh wow, I feel dizzy.

He gives me an odd look for the subject change but replies anyway, "Donovan."

I test it out.

"Slater Donovan Hartley," the name already has chills tickling my spine, "Alright, that fits quite well," I admit, and he smiles slightly in reply.

We are once again consumed by the quietude of the room.

Somehow, this time around, it's relaxing.

ㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡ

"Please," I beg, "I swear, I'll make it up to you."

Hannah turns around and stops walking, giving me the most exhausted expression I've seen on a person in a while, "Quorra. Just stop, I don't want you to just 'make it up to me'. I'm not worried about myself, I'm worried about you. And if me being around you and trying to help you is just going to be in vain, I'm not going to try anymore."

I feel a little bit of my soul chip off at her words, stepping forward and grabbing her wrist as she makes a moves to walk off. I am not losing the first real friend I've had in years. Not today.