under the covers [hs au]

chapter two.

"Have you found the boy?"

Samira secured the phone between her ear and shoulder as she stroked gold highlighter onto her client's cheek.

"No. Why are we talking about him?" Samira retorted defensively to her sister, Surat. Part of her felt bad for being on the phone while working, but the other part felt a tinge of sadness at the thought of him; she yearned to see the inquisitiveness in his eyes, but she found that the closest she could get to him was in her daydreams. "I'll call you later. I'm busy."

"Doing what?"

She paused before brushing away the excess powder on her client's face. "A booking."

"Wow, a booking already? I'm proud of you."

Samira comprehended Surat's words as sarcasm. "Thanks, kid." She rolled her eyes.

"Ayan is here, do you want to say hi?"

Ayan was Samira's older brother. She loved Ayan, though they weren't close. If she were to talk to him, there wouldn't be anything to talk about, and she intended to keep it that way; after all these years, she found no point in trying.

"I gotta go, love you." Samira hung up quickly and tucked her phone away, looking at her client. "Sorry about that," she apologized, cringing at her own unprofessionalism.

"It's okay."

She was crisp and polished in her all-black uniform, leaving not a single crease in her shirt. Professionalism matters, her father used to tell her, because no one will take you seriously if you can't look the part.

Samira handed a mirror to the bride. "Do you like it?" she asked kindly, hoping for the best possible response from her first client in Liverpool.

But the bride's big, hazel eyes were indecipherable. "I like it," she said faintly.

"You can be honest with me," Samira insisted.

The bride turned to meet Samira's eyes. "Seriously, I love it." However, her voice carried no signs of excitement.

Samira leaned against the vanity, trying not to make it obvious that she was scrutinizing the bride. The bride's smile was small, her breathing unsteady. Something gave her the sense that the bride wasn't very excited—she could be wrong—but she'd seen this scenario many times: a worried bride overthinking her decisions.

"You'll have a good time, Insha-Allah," she reassured, rubbing a circle into the bride's shoulder, hoping to calm her down from an impending nervous-breakdown. "You look stunning."

The bride's lips stretched a bit wider, too preoccupied to wear her gratitude in a more obvious fashion. "Thank you."

Samira added the finishing touches to her face, fixed her green dupatta for her, and then proceeded to pack up the makeup. Minutes later, the bride's family members entered with a photographer to take pictures. Samira took a few of her own, with the intent of sharing them on her Instagram page.

Samira left the hotel with her large sunglasses over her eyes and her case of makeup rolling behind her. With the sun beaming down at her, she searched for a taxi, finally finding a few alongside a curb. A man in a newsboy cap waved his hand, calling her to board his taxi. After telling him the address of her apartment, her phone began to ring: it was Tasneem.

"Samira, where are you?"

Shit. She had completely forgotten about it: the friendly get-together.

"Fuck, sorry, Tasneem. I'll be there in 10 minutes, do you mind?"

"No, I was just worried about you."