under the covers [hs au]

chapter fifteen.

Harry began doing all the things he wanted to do as a boyfriend: he'd pick the stray eyelashes off Samira's cheeks, bring her sunflowers from his garden, and spend countless nights in her bed falling asleep next to her.

He started to be himself—it made Samira happy, comfortable.

It was another chilly weekend. Samira and Harry grew tired of taking strolls in the cold, so their activities were moved indoors—tonight, he'd invited her over to his place so they could cook dinner together and watch a movie afterward. She'd never been to his home before, and she could only wonder how it looked.

Samira stood in the elevator, talking to Mahnoor on the phone.

"How long have you two been going out now?" Mahnoor asked.

"More than two weeks," Samira answered, the elevator coming to a stop.

"Uh . . . have y'all had sex yet?"

Samira felt her heart jump. "No."

"Have you thought of it?"

"Um . . ." Samira mumbled.

She did—but pushed the idea away. There was endless sexual tension—channeled into heated make-outs and desperate touching—but Harry never asked that question.

But she knew he had thought of it too from his drunken words and indirect teasing—maybe they were both stalling.

"I haven't had sex since James," Samira then added. "I've been abstinent since."

"Yeah, because it's haram," Mahnoor reminded.

"Okay, I know I said I wouldn't do it." Samira bit her tongue. "But, you know, if it happens, you'll see me at the masjid the next day."

"Samira!"

"That was a joke!"

"Was it?"

"Maybe not."

"God, Mimi. Have you shaved?"

"I mean . . . yeah."

"You're too prepared. Stop acting like you don't want it to happen."

Samira stepped out of the elevator, remembering the number of Harry's apartment. The place seemed cozy, but the crisp scent lingering in the air smelled . . . expensive.

"Maybe I do, but it doesn't mean my iman disappeared," Samira retorted, rolling her eyes.

"I know, but still, I worry," Mahnoor replied.

"Yeah, too much," Samira reposted, knocking on the door of Harry's apartment. "I'm hanging up."

A moment later, the door slowly opened—Harry stood alone with a simper on his lips: "Hey."

Samira scrutinized him discreetly; he wore loose black trousers and a white graphic t-shirt. Samira hid a gulp, seeing the shape of his inked, muscular arms.

That's a tight-ass shirt.

"Oooh." Samira cleared her throat, smelling the fragrant aroma. "What are you cooking?"

"You'll see." Harry opened the door, allowing her in.

As Samira removed her shoes, she heard a jingly sound. When she looked down the hall, she found a dog running to the door. Samira's heart pounded in her ears; she squealed, embracing Harry immediately.

Shit, I forgot he had a dog.

"Babe, whoa," Harry laughed, wrapping his arms around her. "Are you afraid of dogs?"