I hesitantly shuffle down the steps of the lecture hall and take my usual seat next to Hannah. As soon as I sidle closer, she turns away from me.

With a sigh, my arrogance retreats, "I'm sorry, Hannah. I know you're just looking out for me and I'm just being too stubborn to listen."

She doesn't seem to be convinced by my definitely-practised-in-the-mirror apology, but she looks over at me anyway, "Alright."

I'm prevented from replying as Sla- Professor Hartley claps his hands and begins the lecture.

"Okay, class, today will be mainly independent work and a review session of what we have covered so far, as opposed to a formal lecture. Be mindful of others and revise quietly. This is the only time you will have to ask me about any topics you don't understand, so use it wisely. Begin," he states, stoic still as his watchful gaze sweeps over the hall, not lingering on anyone.

Anyone.

Students start to take out their materials and headphones to block out everyone else as I look down at my desk, at a loss for words. It appears as if a gaping hole has burrowed its way into my chest; it's like I've somehow managed to drive away all my friends and people who cared about me in return for my parents' acceptance.

Isn't it worth it though? They finally understand you, you can finally have a family again.

I sigh audibly as the room descends into a studious atmosphere, a few hands raising for guidance on more taxing areas.

Footsteps approach from behind me, and I turn around, expecting to see prominent cheekbones and dark eyes lined with thick lashes.

I can't hold back the disappointment from showing in my expression.

But even more so, my eyes fill with unadulterated fear.

I scan up the figure's body, dread consuming me with every familiar feature. Black trainers. Slim blue jeans. Plain white shirt. Sharp jaw, blue eyes, blonde hair.

Recognition.

"Quorra, it's nice to see you again," Grant greets with an unfaltering smile.

I feel as if a complete quiet washes across the room, but I know that it only washes over me. I still, like a motionless mannequin on display in front of a store. He watches me like one, the happiness in his eyes refusing to fade.

Hannah stiffens beside me.

"I..." I manage to conjure up, but the rest of my sentence dies in my throat.

A pencil clatters to the ground on the other side of the room.

Thankful for the distraction, I flit my attention to the cause of the sound.

Professor Hartley stares at Grant with a steely glint in his eye. His obsidian gaze turns to mine after a while, the compressed anger not softening.

Four Mississippis later,  he looks away, returning to his position - leant over a student's desk - to help a lost-looking girl.

"I just wanted to come over here and say hi," Grant reiterates, hands up in defence, "I won't do a thing."

I look at him sceptically, doubting every single syllable that leaves his mouth.

"And," he continues, stepping closer, "I know you don't want to talk about what happened in our past, so I won't bring it up. But know this - I never intended for that to happen. I would never intentionally hurt you."

I lose the ability to speak, the letters unable to come together in my overworked brain. My limbs grow numb, the feeling in my fingertips disappearing like I wish he would. My pen falls out of my grasp and onto the table as fast as my heart drops from my chest.

I almost faint when he sits down in the empty seat next to me.

I can tell that Hannah is paying close attention, especially as I've never told her what happened between Grant and I. Well, I was going to but then she walked in on something that she wasn't meant to see.

The distinct feel of Professor Hartley's gaze constantly looking over at our reaction only increases the rate at which my heart races.

"I just wanted to say the following, and if you still want nothing to do with me after this, then fair enough, but just listen. Can you do that for me, Quo?" Grant asks, and I can't see past the authenticity in his eyes.

I nod, even though his patronising tone stirs something sickening inside of me.

"I think what you are doing is amazing," he starts, and immediately my eyes widen.

The feeling is reawakened in my body as I look at him, disgusted at the greed for praise that has built in my chest.

"You are so brave to take this chance and sacrifice some things that are important to you in order to do better in this university. I can tell by the way that you are in class that you are a lot more hardworking," he continues, but a swirling feeling begins in my stomach.

"How do you know I'm doing better?" I question, fearing the answer, "And how do you know I'm making certain sacrifices?"

He doesn't have to think very hard to muster up an answer, his ocean blue eyes remaining on mine, "I can see that you're a little slimmer, Quorra."

He goes as far as to pinch my side lightly and comment, "You look better than ever."

I look at myself in the glint of my watch and see nothing but pale skin, pulled slack on bone.

"Thank you."

It comes from me.

"Hey," he suddenly says, smiling once again, "Why don't you stop by my room later on today or tomorrow? I'm planning to brush up on the literature I don't manage to review in class. You down for another tutor session? It might even end up being that you turn into my tutor," he laughs.

I don't hear any malice in his tone.

"Alright," I agree.

He beams wider before getting up, "Awesome. See you later, Quo."

I can't do anything but nod blankly, a storm of emotions destroying my rationality as I turn back to my desk.

I look down, lost. What just happened?

ㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡ

The duvet suffocates me as I sit, stark straight, in bed.

The only light that invades the room is from the small lamp sitting on the table. The pin drop silence pierces right through me.

I don't know why I'm still awake. I feel as if I can't sleep because it's only evening, but I'm utterly exhausted. I don't have energy in my body anymore.

Professor Hartley isn't back yet. His side of the room, neat and tidy as always, is impeccably untouched.

Thoughts of Grant plague my mind. Do I go? He seemed like he understood me, like so few people do nowadays. Does he really care now?

At that, the door cracks open and a bold yellow light infiltrates the entrance. The unforgettable outline of my English professor follows right after.

"Hello," he greets, the door shutting behind him with a click! that carries a sense of finality.

"Hey," I reply, perhaps a second too fast.

He places his bag down at the foot of his bed, removing his blazer and draping it carefully over the chair at my table. I watch his movements precisely, not knowing why he has become the most fascinating thing to me.

"You weren't waiting for me, were you?" he asks, setting a plastic bag down on my bed as I frown.

I reach for the bag and look inside, finding a cardboard box.

"No, I don't really know what I was waiting for. I got tired of working and have some... things on my mind," I respond, the reason why I just told my teacher all of that unbeknownst.

He slips his shoes off and sits down on his bed, opposite me. A curious look fills his features as he points to the food in my lap, "That's our shared meal for the day. I thought you might have better luck with dessert than a proper meal."

I don't argue, removing two ice cream cones from the box and handing him one. My sweet tooth emerges as I unwrap it and take a bite, the statisfying crunch of the crisp cone enough to coax me into eating the dessert.

As I'm tentatively tasting the vanilla ice cream, a low chuckle from Professor Hartley startles me.

"What?" I question, pinning him with a look.

"I see you have a sweet tooth. I'll take note of that," he says, clearly amused by my apparently-childish trait.

I frown, "So? I bet you have plenty of laughable characteristics that I don't know yet."

I'm surprised to hear him scoff, an action so unlike his usual demeanour, "I doubt you can guess one. I don't even know of any, Miss Neversea."

A light, fluffy feeling lifts in my chest as I take the challenge and take advantage of the rare moment where we are actually getting along.

I finish my ice cream in the next three minutes and begin listing his possible attributes, "Ticklish?"

"No," he rejects, before adding, "I don't suggest you put that to the test."

"Gullible?"

"No."

I give him a flat look, but let it slide.

"Clumsy?" I attempt, preparing myself for denial.

"Not at all."

"Easily entertained?"

He replies by giving me an expressionless look.

"Oh wow, alright," I mutter under my breath, before a light bulb goes off in my head.

"Oh I know," I grin, the confidence in my answer convcing me to stand up and wander closer to him, "And you can't deny this one."

He lifts a perfect eyebrow in challenge, "Well what irrefutable truth do you so definitely believe about me?"

"You," I start, feeling a smile tug at the corner of my lips for the first time in forever, "are too innocent."

He simply blinks at me for a few seconds.

"Innocent?" he repeats, tilting his head at me.

"Yes," I confirm, growing more sure of myself by the second, "You are extremely sensitive about me swearing, for one, and never speak a curse word voluntarily."

As expected, he is quick to defend himself, "Choosing to speak in formal English doesn't make me innocent. Rather, it makes me educated."

I snort, "Okay."

"A prime example," he mumbles, and my jaw drops in offence.

"And also, you are incredibly naive about non-school related matters. I know you can probably read and write the Greek alphabet forwards and backwards in two seconds flat, but can you name one popular band from the last year?" I interrogate, feeling victorious as he stumbles over an answer.

He doesn't respond, instead weakly defending his case with repetition, "I am not innocent, Miss Neversea."

I laugh, "That's cute."

Irritation soaks up his features as faint traces of a scowl line his lips, "It is inappropriate to call your lecturer 'cute'."

I roll my eyes, letting loose, "I think we've already crossed the boundaries of what is appropriate of a typical student-teacher relationship, given that we share a room and one of us has seen the other in the almost-fucking-nude."

He reinforces his earlier point, "That sentence was also highly inappropriate. 10p. You have also used that excuse before, thus rendering it invalid."

"Well you can't prove that you aren't innocent because it's written all over your pretty little face. What's my prize?" I ask, feeling smug as he crosses his arms, vexed.

"No prize, because I don't agree," he says sternly, as if this is the first time things haven't gone his way.

I sit down on his bed and nudge him: a dangerous move. The air in the room has lifted, and all of a sudden, the tiny lamp on my desk seems to be emitting enough light to fuel my heart for years.

"This is not a student-teacher relationship sitting distance, Miss Neversea," he warns, which only provokes me to move closer.

I lean into his cologne with an evil smile, soon finding myself looking up at him through my lashes. His eyes meet mine soon after, stripping me of my playful mood.

I only now start to realise the heat spreading in my cheeks and the organ in my chest being engulfed in a foreign feeling. Our gazes remain intertwined for a while, both of us waiting for the other to move away as we always do in these awkward situations.

But neither of us do.

He scans my face with an unreadable look in his eye, from my eyes to my nose and right down to my lips. The air stills around us. I admire his faultless face for a few moments more, gaze brushing across his tanned skin.

"I've already done so many things I'm not meant to with you," he murmurs under his breath, and I'm so distracted by his sculpted features that I barely register his words.

I surprise myself with my response.

"So what's one more?"