under the covers [hs au]

chapter twenty-two.

hello!

i hope you all are safe and well.

if you haven't read chapter 21, make sure you have before you read this! i updated late last week on sunday, so it is possible you may have missed it. don't forget.

thank you for reading. we are almost halfway through the story.

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Samira stood in front of the mirror, adjusting her clothes. Most of her jeans had gotten loose for her—it was odd.

February had just begun, which meant that it was Harry's birthday. However, they couldn't celebrate for too long; he had a meeting with a consultant about the roof tonight, and Samira was to look after Bea while he was gone.

Her hair was done the way Harry liked, and she wore her usual rose-colored lipstick. After tucking in a black t-shirt, she finished the outfit with a brown knit cardigan. For a moment, she felt awkward looking at herself.

Before leaving her home, her phone buzzed in her pocket. It was the adhan for maghrib prayer. She closed the notification, mind buzzing from the decision she had just made: she planned to pray later.

Harry was smiley when she arrived; his eyes lit up when he heard the word dosa—Samira was up late on the phone with her mother the night before, trying to perfect the batter.

As they were in the kitchen preparing food, Harry stood behind Samira with his arms around her waist. He'd tried doing this before, but Samira never let him—now that it was his birthday, Samira couldn't stop the random kisses on her cheeks and small grabs at her hips.

After they ate together, Samira helped him get ready for the meeting.

"Is my hair okay?" Harry asked. There was a dissatisfied look on his face as he stood in front of the mirror.

"You're overthinking it," Samira replied frankly, buttoning his olive-colored dress shirt.

She wished to take away his nervousness; he truly didn't deserve to feel this way on a day like this.

"Could . . . you do it?"

Samira crossed her arms over her chest, looking at his mess of brown hair. Then her eyes lit up with an idea.

She sat him down on his bed, raking her curl cream in his hair.

He tapped his foot, fiddling with his fingers.

"Thangam," she called. "What's wrong?"

Harry sighed, holding her close.

"Even though I've been working on this for what feels like forever, I feel unprepared."

"Sometimes you have to wing it," Samira began, rotating the brush in his hair.

"What if I say something wrong?"

Samira stooped down, gazing at him. "What would you do?"

"I . . ." Harry looked away for a moment. "I correct myself?"

"Okay, and then?"

"I keep going?"

"Then?"

"I don't know."

Samira held his face in her hands, locking their gazes. She was tired of watching him self-loathe—it was about time he rooted for himself.

"Then you give them the best damn presentation ever. A lot of people would have chickened out on a situation like this, but you did not, because you know how much you deserve this. You did this by yourself, and you have to acknowledge that. You understand?"