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?"

Without a reply, he stops me from lying back down.

"Your bed is already damp, lie on mine," he gestures to his as colour rises on my face for a reason unknown to me.

"I'm good," I decline, pointing to my wet hair, "I don't want to make both of our beds wet. Sleeping on the floor sounds shitty."

"5p. We can change the sheets," he insists, steering me towards his bed by sliding his lean body between me and my bed, holding my gaze.

I sigh and grab my towel, squeezing out the remnants of water from my hair before lying down on his tidy bed, infested with his distinct scent. Why do attractive guys always smell good?

I pull my cotton shirt down, settling on his bed as he gently pushes the ice pack against the back of my head. I wince but the cooling sensation soon neutralises the pain and I lean back into his hand with a sigh.

"I think the cuts are ready to be bandaged," Slater says, reaching over to my side of the room for the first aid kit.

He uses one hand to fish for the bandages while the other keeps the icepack against me. Once he finds them, he sets them down beside me.

"Can you hold the ice pack?" he asks, his deep voice smoother than silk as usual.

Wordlessly, I replace his hand with mine.

His fingers reach for the hem of my oversized shirt, tentatively pulling it up to expose my dry, clean cuts. Reflexively, my cheeks bloom with a generous sprinkling of colour as his eyes linger on my choice of boy shorts for a second too long.

For the next few minutes, he applies antibacterial cream to both cuts as I resist the urge to pull asay every time his fingers glide over my skin. He folds two bandages to a sensible size and is just about to grab the medical tape when we both dart our gaze up to the door.

A slither of light from outside turns into a gaping hole as it dawns on both me and Slater that he may have forgotten to close the door behind him.

A head of ginger ringlets is first to come into view. When a pair of wide, emerald eyes meet mine, I'm ready to pass out.

Fuck.

"I-I..." Hannah blinks at us, tense as if holiding her breath, "Quorra told me to... The door was..."

I realise just how much his scene could be misinterpreted and embarrassment swallows my face whole as Hannah makes one last sound of startled disbelief and hurries out, slamming the door.

Tumbleweed rolls past.

"Fuck," I whisper under my breath, pressing on Slater's shoulder to get onto my feet and chase after her.

I'm darting towards the door after her, unable to stop the live action replay stuck on loop in my head. Before I can yank open the door, an arm around my waist pulls me back. My heart hammers in my chest as I flash my gaze up to Slater.

"You've only got a shirt on," he reminds, lips at my ear as it dawns on me and I turn around to grab a pair of anything from the drawers.

"It's fine," he pulls my wrist back, "There's nothing for her to tell and if there was, she wouldn't."

My logical side returns as I press my hand to my chest, heaving a sigh, "She better not. Martha-Meticulously-Moronic already thinks I'm-"

I cut myself off, saving Slater's somehow-still-untainted mind from my vulgarity.

I replace the rest of my sentence with a, "Never mind."

As he gestures for me to lie back down, I calm the rapid rate of my heart and run my fingers through my tangled, slightly damp hair.

Lifting my shirt once again, he positions the bandages above my wounds and tapes the sides down with medical tape. We settle into a mutual what-the-fuck-just-happened, minds swirling with what Hannah could be thinking.

"I disapprove of your nickname but for your information, I'm not as innocent as you think, Quorra."

I snap out of it, unable to fathom if he meant to imply what he just did.

He sees the disbelief in my eyes and secures a final piece of tape over the cut on my thigh, smoothing it down, "No, I do not have intercourse with multiple partners on a regular basis. Mind out of the gutter, young lady. I meant that I was a teenager once and have been surrounded with the sort of inappropriate language and behaviours you are surrounded by right now."

"It doesn't sound like it," my mouth runs before I think (as usual), "You don't sound like a 23 year old at all."

Slater offers a quirked eyebrow at my statement, "Then what overarching generalisation has society taught is the 'normal' 23 year old, Quorra?"

I shrug, avoiding his curious eyes as I pull down my shirt and swing my legs off the side of his bed, "I don't know, but if I heard you and never saw you I'd say you were in your thirties."

I pause to think.

"Actually, not even thirty year olds talk like you do."

As expected, he doesn't appreciate my words, "And how does my appearance contribute to a ten year age difference?"

Instantly, my face generates a flat look, one of many I deliver to a variety of people over the course of a day.

"You know the answer to that," I respond, though not sure whether he actually does, as I push myself off his bed and to my feet.

He seems to be in deep thought as he puts away the first aid equipment, folding the leftover bandages up neatly and packing everything into the box in the exact formation it was in when he opened it.

"This generation confuses me. What makes a man attractive?" he suddenly asks.

Okay. Well.

"We're the same generation and there is no way I'm answering that. Are you asking for awkwardness?" I scoff at him, partly because I know giving him a description would be like describing him.

I can't help a smile sneak onto my lips as I realise he would probably be more embarrassed than me. With an amused shake of my head, I wander over to my bedside table and pick up my phone

"Alright, I have some work to get done," Slater informs, standing up, sliding on his glasses and grabbing his suitcase, "See you in a bit."

Appreciating how his glasses completely alter his appearance, I give a slight wave in goodbye, trying not to show my disappointment at the idea of being alone in a desolate room.

"Oh," I force myself to say before chickening out, "Thanks for fixing me up."

He shakes his head a little, a small smile hinting at his lips as he opens the door, "No worries, Quorra."

He heads out, leaving me alone in the room. The door shuts with a light click, the sound almost echoing in the small room.

I see my phone screen light up with a text message.

Figuring it's Hannah with a torrent of questions, I open the message, preparing myself.

My smile drops faster than my heart.

Your mum got a phone call from the school. Your grades are below average in your class. We sent you to this university as another chance, Quorra - fix that attitude and work harder or we're pulling you out. Do you have any idea how expensive this was? Disappointment is all we feel. You are only spiralling downhill at this university. Are you even trying? Your mum and I are coming to visit again in the upcoming weeks, and we better not see David.

Fix this.
Dad.

Anger and frustration flood my entire body.

I am trying.

... Sometimes.

Part of me has given up because my effort has never amounted to anything over the span of... well, my entire eighteen years of life. Why start trying now when it never worked before, right? Learn from your mistakes.

But maybe they're right.

I dampen my rage, hands weak as I drop my phone. Ambivalent, I collapse onto my bed, elbows digging into my knees as I rest my head in my hands, caught in an internal battle between reckless anger and obedient compliancy.

Maybe they're right.

Maybe I should try harder.

No.

I'm going to try harder. I'm going to prove their sorry asses wrong. I'm going to pass all my exams. I'm going to graduate from this damn place.

I'm going to be like Lara.