under the covers [hs au]

chapter fourteen.

Samira's room was a mess: clothes were on the floor, makeup spread over her vanity, and drawers were left open.

It took her two hours to get ready, but she was finally dressed, observing herself in the mirror, hoping her appearance was presentable. Casual, as Harry said, meant too many things to Samira; she'd either go overboard or too laid back, but she hoped to be right in the middle, or whatever Harry meant.

Her hair was done the way he liked, the lion way. She adorned a plum tunic and navy blue jeans, along with her beat-up Vans. Unable to defeat the cold, she pulled out a black swing jacket hidden deeply in her closet.

After applying just mascara and her favorite lipstick, she grabbed her purse, seeing it was almost seven o'clock.

When she stepped into the elevator, nervous chills roamed her body. She began to sweat, her heart wanting to escape from her chest. All reality hit her—she was going on a date with Harry—not a friend-hang—a date.

Her hands remained clammy when she stepped into the lobby, clutching her purse for comfort. When she stepped outside, there Harry was, hiding behind . . . a sunflower?

He tilted his head, looking at her with the sunflower in his hands. He held a smile; only this time, she saw it wasn't as timorous. It was almost confident.

Samira's cheeks crimsoned: "Is that from your garden?"

"Yeah," he answered.

It was endearing that he chose a sunflower instead of the typical roses or peonies—it meant more that he grew it himself.

Samira couldn't help her shy giggles when he handed it to her. It seemed small in his hands, but it was quite prominent in hers.

They began to walk; he'd usually hold her close with his arms snaked over her shoulder, only this time, he pressed a few kisses to her forehead.

People crowded the station as they stood together, waiting for their train.

"Sam?" He called.

Samira turned to him. "Hmm?"

Harry didn't go on; he took the flower from her and scrutinized her jacket.

Samira furrowed her eyebrows at him, confused: "What?"

"Nothing," he said. "I don't want you to keep holding this."

He reached over, fitting his hand into her pocket. The stem mounted right into its space; the flower peeked out like it was an accessory, complimenting her jacket.

"There," he said, averting his eyes to her. "That's better."

Samira laughed: "This is fine too."

Harry then took her arms, wrapping them around his waist. Samira laughed again, understanding why he didn't want her to hold the flower.

"Where are we going?" Samira asked, looking up at him.

"Well . . ." He mumbled, leaning his forehead onto hers. "I'm going to keep it a surprise."

Samira rolled her eyes. "Fine."

It was a short train ride to the other side of Liverpool. They held hands as they walked over the patterned sidewalk, sprinting together obnoxiously to the opposite side of the road before a car could run them over.

Soon enough, they stood in front of a large, detailed building—the Walker Art Museum.

"I've always wanted to come here," Samira mentioned.