*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."

43?

The smoking-hot professor next to me - 43?

"Well, it'll still taste good?" I offer helplessly, eyeing the buttercream frosting layered thickly around the outside of the tanned cake.

The silence returns, tenfold as awkward.

For a moment, he hesitates, before tidily opening a plastic fork and scooping a bite of cake. I watch tensely as he places it in his mouth and slides the fork back out cleanly.

I await his judgement like a child pursuing praise for her latest raw pasta portrait.

"It's... nice," he finally concludes.

Over the next half an hour, I discover my English professor's Achilles heel.

His undeniable infatuation with vanilla cake.

No sprinkles, no extra decoration, no chocolate, no strawberry - just plain cake with vanilla frosting.

It's kind of adorable.

I smile to myself, taking a bite of my cake slice as Slater finishes his second with a satisfied expression. He has relaxed subconsciously and leans back against his bed, savouring the taste of the light and fluffy cake layered with velvety frosting.

He catches my eye, glancing up from his plate almost guiltily as I suppress my laughter.

"Did you like it?" I ask teasingly, taking a seat next to him with an amused look plastered across my face.

He tries to shrug it off as nothing, but I can tell that he's already planning the next time he sneaks out and indulges in vanilla cake. At this rate, he might end up losing that flat stomach of his.

Seizing the opportunity to glance down at his abdomen, I snort. Yeah, right.

"I must thank Hannah when I next see her," he mentally notes, "It's been a long time since I celebrated my birthday."

At that, my playfulness drops completely.

"Really?" I ask, holding his gaze as he looks across at me, "That's sad. Despite my shitty parents, my fondest memories are of birthdays and other celebrations. Next, you're gonna tell me you didn't celebrate Christmas either."

He seems uncomfortable.

I gawk at him.

"You're lying."

He avoids my gaze.

"Oh my god, you aren't lying. Dude, we are going to make some damn memories this Christmas, or you're going to go your entire life without any."

I don't even realise what I've insinuated until the words have left my mouth. Immediately, my face is painted scarlet and I wince.

"Sorry, I didn't-"

"That sounds nice."

I look at him, pleasantly surprised. It's as if all my emotions have been thrown in a blender and blitzed to oblivion. What does he even want anymore? What do I even want anymore?

The mood of the room suddenly changes. We both know what conversation is coming, but his words shock me to my core nonetheless.

"Listen, Quorra," he sighs, dragging a hand down his face, "I know I said that I didn't want anything to happen between us because it's against the regulations, but we've already done so much we are not permitted to, and I can't keep distancing myself from you. At some point, that method will run dry and then what? I can't stay away from you."

I'm completely stupefied, left staring at him ambivalently, "What are you suggesting?"

Conflicted, he doesn't seem to know the answer to that himself, "Just that, what happens... happens. I will not take initiative to further our relationship, but if things start swaying a certain way, I won't stop them. I don't really know; this has never been a problem for me before, but you've really thrown me off, Quorra."

I don't know whether to be proud or offended as my eyes remain fixed on him, speechless. He's finally thrown all his cards down - just as I wanted - so what now?

"So you don't care about the rules anymore? About you being fired and me expelled?" I ask in disbelief, not knowing whether this is what I want or not.

He struggles over an answer, "I don't know, Quorra. I guess if anything did happen, we'd have to keep it quiet, but-"

"Are you suggesting we sneak around?!" I gape at him incredulously, watching his goody-two shoes vanish off his feet without a trace.

"Slater," I begin, unable to believe what I'm about to say, "we both know that I'm all for the development of anything between us - for god's sake, look at yourself in the damn mirror - but I don't want that to be the reason why you're suddenly changing your mind."

He looks at me, emotion stirring in his eyes.

The bed dips down as he falls back onto his back, smothering his face with his hands wearily, "Look," he replies, somewhat muffled, "I'm a grown man and I know full well what I want and believe. No eighteen year old will sway my decisions so easily, not even you."

Not even me? What is that supposed to mean?

I flush with colour, half in embarrassment and half from being overwhelmed with the overload of information.

"Uhm, okay," is all I can muster, feeling as small as a button on a shoreline.

He peeks from under his fingers, a lazy grin that I've grown accustomed to over the past few days spreading over his features, "Now can you respect the wishes of the birthday boy?"

A moment of silence passes us.

Then I laugh: an ugly laugh that lacks as much daintiness as a baby giraffe in stilettos.

"Alright, calm down, mate, you aren't the president. Congratulations, you haven't died yet," I quip pessimistically, welcoming the lighthearted atmosphere and lying back next to him.

My hair splays out around me and I become hyperaware of his touch as he winds a strand around his finger absentmindedly. I smile, shaking my head to myself.

These are the moments I cherish - the moments where I'm thinking about absolutely nothing and can just sit (well, lay) and enjoy the silence. The moments where I'm not worrying about what I've done wrong, or what I will do wrong. The moments where I'm only worrying about myself in that exact moment.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Slater murmurs, reading the pensive look on my face.

I crack a smile and tilt my head to look at him, "You've robbed me of so much money, and you still want more?" I tease.

He picks up on my reference immediately and raises an eyebrow, "You haven't paid me a penny yet. How much have we collated from your swearing habits so far, remind me?"

"Well, I seem to recall that you have some pretty bad 'swearing habits' yourself," I defend myself , crossing my arms and narrowing my eyes at him in accusation.

Not even bothering to deny it, he shrugs.

"I've gotten over it."

I don't reply for a while, completely entranced by the perfection lying next to me. A tuft of hair escapes from the rest, falling across his forehead in a silky lock as I dare to meet his intense gaze.

Heart thumping in my chest, I feel a breath shudder past my lips. The anticipation of what we could so easily lean closer and do suffocates me. Even though I can feel his burning gaze drop down from my eyes, I can tell he is still reluctant.

"They say you regret the things you didn't do more than the things you did do in life," I whisper, glad that I can still form a coherent sentence with him so abnormally close to me.

I would barely have to extend my arm halfway to touch him. I become painstakingly aware of every movement, watching his dark eyelashes flutter with every blink.

He moves impossibly closer, eyes still concentrated on my lips. I swallow anxiously, forgetting how to breathe.

"Well thank fuck for that," he mutters, before a hand against the back of my neck pulls us together.

Our lips meet and trigger a sweltering heat to course throughout my body. I simultaneously melt into a puddle and crave his touch, pulling myself closer to him.

We both know it's wrong but neither of us care. His tongue soon finds its way past my lips, coaxing a moan out of me as his fingers twine into my hair in yearning. I fist his shirt in response, kissing him harder to wipe the smile I can feel on his lips away.

I pull away briefly to gasp a breath, "You are so fucking confusing, Slater Hartley," I insult breathlessly, chest rising and falling erratically as he sits up, pulling me up with him.

"I know," he agrees, cheeks flushed with the heat of the moment as his lips desperately seek mine again and his hands fall to my waist.

The temperature of the room rises several thousand degrees as every inch of his toned body presses against mine. The satisfying contrast of his hardened stomach with my soft one only urges me to deepen the kiss, meeting his tongue with mine.

That elicits a sinful moan from him that I feel rumble in his chest, encouraging me to pull away and kiss down his sharp jawline.

He clenches his jaw tight, grip tightening around my torso as I feel his hesitation creep back in.

I'm distracted with the smooth planes of his neck as he talks, breathless and thoughts disorganised, "Q-Quorra, should we be-"

"If you are about to stop this right now, I will personally make sure to attend your funeral so I can bury you six feet under myself," I pull back, straddling his waist for comfortably to remind him of our proximity.

His arms loosely wrap around my lower torso, holding me captive against him as he sighs and decides on his next move. As warm, honey-tinted eyes meet mine, I watch the last of his resolve dissolve like sugar into freshly-brewed coffee.

Our next kiss is slower but as soon as his teeth sink into my bottom lip, I know we're both long gone.

Desperate for more, my hands find the edge of his T-shirt, yanking it up impatiently. Slater moves back, teeth scraping past my lower lip as he pulls the shirt up and over his head.

"Sweet mother of all that is holy," I murmur shallowly, openly admiring the expanse of tanned skin before me.

He's not excessively muscly but the faint definition of abs has me dreamily sighing anyway. As if insecure, Slater lifts my chin to stare me in the eye, "You can stare some other time," he reminds, before starting to plant open-mouthed kisses down my neck.

"Oh m-" I cut myself off, relishing in the feel of our skin pressed together and winding my arms around him, pulling him closer.

I feel slender fingers fiddle with the edge of my shirt, but I'm so taken aback by the sudden sensation of teeth nipping at my shoulder that I don't hear the piercing screech of a ringtone until Slater points it out.

"Phone," he states in short, glazed eyes staring at the device on my nightstand.

"Flucking heck," I close my eyes and exhale, trying to recall the memories of our intense moment that fade into the past second my second.

The relentless ringing forces me to reach over and grab my mobile, accepting the call blindly and speaking a sharp, "What?"

Slater falls back onto his elbows under me, looking just as frustrated as me as I remain in my previous position on his lap.

"Quo? You sound strange," notes the stupidly chirpy voice of a certain sister of mine.

●（=｀～'=） ●

Yeah, so my maths is a bit shit. Let's pretend Slater was 22 before, and now he's 23, ja? I can't go back and edit every time it says that as I don't want to mess with the inline comments and dates, so just bear with me.

Thanks, guys! And I'm especially grateful for all the support lately. I've noticed a few new readers and I love you all!

Over and out,
Spud 🥔

P.S Lowkey can't fathom how I'm keeping up with weekly updates with exams, but I'm relieved af