SURPRISE, BRIOCHE ROLLS!

●（=｀～'=） ●

"Where did you go yesterday?" Hannah asks as we press the buttons for our respective floors, watching the doors slide closed.

I shift my weight to the other foot, hugging my folder to my chest uncomfortably, "I had to grab something from my room."

The look she gives me tells me she doesn't believe me, but she lets me get away with it anyway, her lack of nosiness one of her best qualities. I give an appreciative smile at her look of knowing.

"I'll tell you later, come by my room," I give in, fed up with hiding this from her.

The elevator opens at her floor and she flashes me a teasing smile as she walks out, "Alright, as long as you aren't busy with a certain someone."

I gape at her as the doors shut and she walks down the corridor backwards, holding my appalled gaze, "What does that even mean?!" I exclaim as the doors close, muffling her laugh.

Scoffing, I cross my arms.

ㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡ

I shut the door behind me, heaving a sigh. Already, it's been a frantic combination of chasing myself to lectures to avoid being late for the umpteenth time and dodging people in the hopes of avoiding a certain someone.

I glance at my watch as I remove it, deciding to use the four hours till my next lecture to shower and get some work done.

I'm barely fifteen minutes into my delightful shower when the most exciting thing happens. The most lovely occurrence.

Hair clean and silky, heavy with the fruity scent of my shampoo and conditioner, I linger under the steady jet of water, savouring the warm torrent which would soon be chased away by goosebumps.

I make a move to place my razor back on the dent-like shelf in the wall.

Stupid.

So stupid.

The razor wobbles and threatens to fall, so, like the hero I am, I hurry to grab it and save it from clattering to the floor.

My vision becomes obscured with the steam from the shower and the water that blurs my eyes.

The shower head holder decides that it doesn't want to hold the shower head anymore.

It drops like a stone.

I let go of the razor.

I slip to the cubicle floor with the sudden pain in my head and simultaneously manage to press the razor towards me in a tuck position, slicing both my thigh and my stomach deep.

Fuck me.

"SHIT!" I curse, hurriedly flipping the shower head over to stop it spraying the glass shower door.

I look down to bright red blood. Diluted with water, it drips down the side of my stomach and leg.

The pain comes after and all at once.

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck, owwww," I wince, almost scared to touch the razor again as I move it away from me.

The remnants of water splash into the cuts, sending stinging sensations ripples throughout my body like the tremors of a volcano. My hair is matted down, sticking to my neck and shoulders unpleasantly.

"Quorra? Are you alright?"

The sound of rustling outside alerts me that Professor Hartley has just come back.

Wow, one night he returns to me half-naked and scratched on the shower floor, and another he returns to me completely naked and cut deep in two places on the shower floor. I'm really making an impression here.

"Do I sound alright?" I exclaim, heaving myself up to a sitting position against the shower wall as dizziness infects me.

Groaning, I lift a soaked hand to my head, finding it hot and swelled up.

The shower head lies innocently on the ground as I scowl through the pain.

The rattling of the doorknob steals my attention.

"Are you insane?!" I shout, even though the volume worsens headache, "I'm fucking naked!"

"Well, grab a towel!" he replies, sounding uncomfortable but worried about my injured state.

I exhale a difficult breath and slide the shower door open, the cold hitting me immediately. My head is sore and throbs as if I'm hungover. Closing my eyes to will the agony away, I somehow find the soft material of a towel and yank it towards me.

My elbow knocks into the wall I'm leaning against, triggering a series of horrid shivers, "Fuck fuck fuckity fuck! FUNNY BONE YOU MOTHER-"

"Quorra! Calm down! I'm coming in," Professor Hartley orders as he toys with the cheap lock on the bathroom.

I quickly pull the towel over me, visibly flinching as the towel touches the fresh wounds. Cradling my elbow, I mentally smack myself for my clumsiness.

The door opens a few seconds later, revealing Professor Hartley in his usual, smart attire.

He takes one glance at me and his eyes widen, "What happened?"

"What fucking happened?! I'm fucking bleeding and I think I have a concussion, I need help not an interrogation!" I exclaim in disbelief, my temples now pulsating with all the discomfort in my head.

Without another word, he pushes the shower door open fully and reaches to pick me up.

I cringe - mentally and physically - as he loops his arms under my knees and upper torso, skin definitely touching mine as the towel only covers my front. Thankfully it is large enough to dangle over the sides of my body, but with how weak I feel, I haven't bothered to wrap it around me properly.

Head aching, I don't have time to feel any more embarrassment, just grateful for the lift as I shut my eyes tight, feeling hot yet cold at the same time.

We leave the bathroom and then soft covers greet my bare skin. The bed soaks up the dampness of my back as my hair thoroughly saturates the pillow with water. The towel pools around my body like a blanket, but knowing that I'm nude under it is a little unnerving. Especially this close to another person. And Professor Hartley nonetheless.

I open my eyes to tug the towel down, swearing for the millionth time today as it touches the deep cut on my thigh.

"Can I...?" Professor Hartley asks, gesturing to my leg.

I lay an arm over my eyes, the blinding light of the room not helpful in curing my headache, "Can you lift my towel so you can see my cut but not too much because I'm most definitely naked and you're my teacher who is much older than me and that'd be kinda awkward? Yeah, sure."

When I feel a hand on my leg, my eyes fly open and I sit bolt upright, mind swirling as I grab his wrist, "What are you doing?! That was sarcasm!"

He blinks at me as I breathe out heavily, turning down my volume, "My head hurts," I groan, not knowing which part of my body hurt more, "And my leg. And my stomach. Why am I so goddamn clumsy?!"

Professor Hartley kneels next to my bed, "I have to check Quorra."

"What makes you so qualified?" I fire back, realising that there isn't a switch for my feistiness.

Something lurks behind his eyes as he answers, "I read," he supplies mysteriously in short before asking to see the cut once again.

I still clutch the towel to me, "No, it's weird."

I'm still wet from the shower, droplets running down my legs onto the bed as the cold air of the room coaxes a shiver out of me. Cautiously, I shuffle back on the bed to sit up slightly, leaning against the back wall.

"Quorra, I'm not going to do anything," he says sincerely, as if there is a deeper meaning behind his words.

Instantly, I pick up on his underlying message, narrowing my eyes at him, "Do you think that I'm so terribly scarred by Grant that another male doing anything to me while I'm vulnerable is my only thought? I don't care about that shit anymore and that fuckwad doesn't haunt me at night. You know what? Do what you want, I don't care."

I turn my nose up, cross my arms, and look away from him with a harrumph. The moment would be comical if I weren't so fired up. What gets me even more angry is how untruthful I'm being. Of course what Grant did constantly bothers me, but my stubbornness wants me to get over it, and maybe something like this will force me to come to terms with it.

Professor Hartley seems to choose his next words carefully, "You know I didn't mean that, Quorra. And I'm not checking any cuts until you give me a clear yes."

I'm still facing away from him, biting my inner, bottom lip to stop any emotion showing on my face, "Just check them," I mutter, sassiness diminishing as I remember how deep the cuts are.

The lie detecter he is, he senses the hesitance in my tone, "Just tell me when to stop then."

He returns from the bathroom a minute later, holding a bucket of water and a clean cloth.

My jaw drops, "There is no way you are putting that shit anywhere near me."

Kneeling next to my bed, he meets my eye, fingers at the edge of the towel, "You've sworn fourteen times. £2.65. May I?"

I look away, "If you stop being so proper, yes."

Ignoring my comment as usual, he repositions the towel so that both of my cuts are visible, revealing my damp skin to the still air of the room.

Holding the top of the towel to my chest, I sneak a glance at him to see his reaction.

To your cuts or your body?

Shut up.

He frowns, "The one on your stomach is a lot deeper but both look bad. I'll clean them and then bandage."

I stay silent as he makes no further comment, anticipating the stinging sensation that the cold water will bring.

Submerging the hand cloth in the water and wringing it out, he starts on my thigh. As soon as the liquid hits me, it burns like my every cake attempt.

"Fu-" I start, before clamping my teeth down onto my bottom lip and biting so hard that I expect it to turn purple and bruised tomorrow.

He continues to dance the cloth over my thigh, pressing it into the wound to soak up the excess blood and any dirt or dust. The sensation of scalding lava doesn't leave, a gruelling combination of being electructed and being thrown in a furnace, even though the cloth is ice cold. I hold my breath every time he applies pressure, expecting (and receiving) the worst. Heat sears my skin, from the pain and his unfamiliar touch.

I don't realise my left hand is clawing into his shoulder in a feeble attempt to stop him until he speaks up, "Let go, Quorra, it's for your own good."

"Don't-" pain, "tell me-" pain, "what-" more pain, "to- FUCKING HELL, CAN YOU STOP?!" excruciating pain.

I throw myself onto my back once again as he presses the cloth directly into the injury, hands dragging down my face achingly, "Why are you pressing so hard?"

"20p. Sorry," he mumbles absent-mindedly, not meaning it.

I sigh, "No you're not."

After a few more endless minutes of agony, he takes off the suffocating hand towel, dropping it into the bucket. The cut looks raw and pink, but a lot cleaner.

He repeats the same process for the cut on my stomach, practically kneading my stomach into oblivion as I resist the urge to curl up into a ball and blast him with my non-existent lasers. The fingers of his other hands rest lightly against the bare skin of my hip, eliciting an inexplainable sensation that is thankfully overpowered by my pain.

The water seeps deeper into this cut and as soon as he starts wiping across the surface of my skin, I scream a profanity and yank the cloth away from him

"What the heck?! Can't you be gentler? I feel like I'm gonna pass out," I groan like the wimp I am, my pain tolerance below zero as usual.

Professor Hartley, expressionless, retrieves the small towel from me, continuing to clean the wound (slightly softer now, thank god), "I apologise. I'm out of practice and your stomach isn't exactly muscular enough to resist pressure."

I flicker my gaze left and right, unsure of whether the statement was a compliment or not, "Gee, thanks...?"

He chuckles and shakes his head, a smile hinting at his lips as he drops the towel back into the bucket, fingers leaving my skin and taking the tingles with them.

"I'll let them dry for a few minutes by themselves. Meanwhile, would you be open to telling me how you got these awful cuts?" he asks imminently.

With a heavy exhale, I bow my head into my hand, trying to conjure up a sentence that wouldn't result in a public announcement of my clumsiness.