under the covers [hs au]

chapter thirty.

Samira and Harry. Harry and Samira.

The light didn't shine on them the way it used to. The skies were gray, the winds passed through her ears, and the world seemed to have stopped. But all that kept going was time, and it didn't freeze for Samira.

It froze for no one.

The curtains were closed, the lights were off. Samira walked through the hall of Harry's apartment, heading to his bedroom. The cold air sent a chill down her spine. She could feel it, Harry's loneliness, especially without the sound of Bea's jingly collar.

The darkness in Harry's room consumed her. Albi, her heart, was alone in his bed, buried beneath the sheets.

Samira's heart had never been so swollen—it was filled with Harry, even the parts that were too much for her to handle. Right now, for him, she had to let her heart be saturated, she had to put him first, again.

Every time she looked at him, memories of the night she returned to him flashed in her mind. When she got off the bus and rushed to the veterinary hospital, she found Harry sitting in the hallway, alone. His eyes were bloodshot, his hands shaking, and he couldn't rip his eyes from the floor. But as soon as Samira sat next to Harry, touching her thigh to his and gently whispering his name, he broke out in heart-wrenching sobs. He pulled her close, crying on her shoulder.

And Samira was hurting too, for Harry, because Bea was all he had left from the times he spent with his late friend, Zayn. She presumed the flower that he finally got to bloom had wilted, and she was having trouble tending it—her own had lost its petals, too.

Now, Samira tiptoed into the room, sitting next to Harry, running her fingers through his soft locks. A faint azure color swelled beneath his eyes, and little hairs peppered on his cheeks.

He then opened his eyes, revealing a dull pair of irises. It broke her heart—his glow had vanished.

Harry pulled her into the sheets wordlessly, locking her in his arms. He nestled his head in her neck, breathing her in.

"Have you eaten?" Samira asked, kissing his forehead.

There was silence, but that meant his answer was no. It felt strange, not being able to hear his voice. He was as blank as a slate.

"You can't starve yourself." Samira took his arms, tugging him out of bed. Her stance was languid, and she tried to stand up straight.

"Come," she urged.

Harry embraced the pillow, hiding his face.

"It's going to be okay." She caressed his face with her thumb. "You have to try."

But Harry wasn't okay. His routine was more sluggish than ever; he became accustomed to dragging himself out of bed only to return to it in a matter of hours. All Harry offered Samira was silence. She would often find herself irritated that he wasn't telling her how he felt; she was so used to hearing him go on and on.

"Is there anything you want, albi?"

But then Harry, to Samira's surprise, got out of bed. He took her hand, leading her out the room to the kitchen. They were quick to feel her absence, the utter emptiness. Together, they savored memories of how Bea was always ready to pounce at their entrance, to smother them with kisses. Samira resented the feelings that arose, unable to imagine how Harry was coping himself.

Samira stood in front of the counter, watching Harry look around the cabinets. He bit his lip, squinting his eyes in thought. Then he turned around, opening the fridge—he returned with a pineapple.