Enough | ✔️

+ 35 +

*24/10/17 Update: This isn't a new update, I just modified the ending. Please go read the last few lines - I apologise for my lack of organisation!

The spectacle before me is one worth memorising.

Slater lies flat on his back on his bed, unbuttoned shirt settling at his sides and exposing the toned skin of his abdomen. His arms are locked perpendicular to him, holding a sheet of paper that looks like a handwritten essay. I've never seen such a look of boredom on his face as he skims the text, and the sight almost makes me faint.

Scenes from yesterday flash before my eyes. I desperately blink them away.

I want to stay at the door and watch the scene some more, but as Slater drops the paper back down with a sigh, he notices me at the door. Unless I'm hallucinating, his cheeks flush a little and he leans up on his elbows.

"Ah, Quorra. My apologies, I didn't realise you don't have a full day of lectures today," he excuses himself needlessly, subtly pulling the edge of his shirt over his stomach as I attempt to casually wave it off and step into the room.

I shut the door behind me, soaking in the thick silence. Slater eyes the bag hanging from my arm dubiously, warm eyes dragging upwards to meet mine in interest.

"What is that?" he questions, as I rub the back of my neck with a forced chuckle.

Deciding that there is no graceful way to do this, I set the cake down on the desk.

"Uhm, happy birthday?"

First, a look of confusion overtakes his features, followed by one of realisation, and finally settling at a look of saturated emptiness. Shifting my weight from foot to foot at his expressionless reaction, I drop my hands back down to my sides and point helplessly to the cake.

"Cake," I state, attempting to revive the situation as he swings his legs over the side of his bed to stand.

He walks over to me, inviting cologne wrapping me in a comforting warmth, and eyes the sleek box.

"How did you find out?" he asks, and if I'm not mistaken, he seems vaguely troubled.

I shrug off the melancholy shadow surrounding his words, "Hannah accidentally overheard a phone call you had. She bought a cake and told me to give it to you," I admit, as he neatly peels back to sellotape around the edges of the cake and pulls the box open.

Upon first glance, I gasp.

A smooth cylinder of snow-white frosting sits in front of me. Elegant kisses forms peaks that stand proudly around the edge and base of the cake, drawing attention to the immaculate pile of glazed fruit sitting in the centre and the frosted message below it. A single plump strawberry sits atop the masterpiece, standing tall with the finesse of a dancer.

"£10, my arse," I whisper into the room, seeing Slater's eyes widen too.

Hang on.

I glance down to analyse the iced message.

"Does that say-"

"Yeah..."

Staring right back at me in red, royal icing are the cursive words:

Happy 43th Birthday, Slater!

I can almost feel the mental image of myself slap her hand into her forehead.

"I'm not-"

"I know," I interrupt again, still half in shock and unable to help myself, "I think the person behind the counter heard Hannah wrong."