under the covers [hs au]

chapter thirty-six.

The morning sun seeped through the blinds, bleeding onto Samira's skin. In its wake, she coughed, shifting beneath the sheets.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Like a thunderous drum, her heart pounded in her ears. An ache stretched from her head down through her toes. Samira rubbed her fingers against her temple, groaning—she had never had a headache this excruciating in her life. In an attempt to relieve the pain, she pulled the sheets over her head, but that only worsened it.

Wait.

Samira breathed in, peeling her eyes open. She pinched the blanket, feeling its softness. The scent invaded her senses like fog—this wasn't her bed.

Blurred memories played in her head, and she could only make out a few events: She broke her own rules. She and Alexia kissed. Harry beat up Cameron. She fled the party drunk, only to end up in Harry's bed.

Samira sat up slowly, blinking rapidly as she looked around the room. She could barely recall a single detail after she left the party. Looking to the floor, she noticed her heels strewn about and an empty bucket next to the nightstand. On her body was a thick sweater, and covering her legs were many, many sheets.

The sweat on her skin caused her mouth to salivate—fuck.

Samira pushed off the blankets urgently, rushing across the cold floor. She locked the door shut, then stood on her knees in front of the toilet.

Her throat burned as she held her hair up, retching all that was left from her stomach. Grimacing, she flushed the toilet, clutching her hand to her belly. She immediately recollected herself, standing promptly before the sink to brush her teeth. She scowled at the foreign woman who stood in front of her, scrubbing her face, removing what was left of her makeup.

When Samira finally finished, she leaned against the counter to take a deep breath. She consumed the air with a certain hunger, this time feeling her belly rise and fall with each breath. Heart pounding swiftly, she felt her emotions flood with regret. The promises she made to herself were broken. All of the irresponsible decisions she made excuses for, the mistakes she consciously made to celebrate her freedom, only led her back to the man who had taken it away.

Harry was the last person she should have been with.

The mirror presented someone Samira wasn't. The messy hair, the hungover eyes, the smeared makeup, the bruises on her wrists. The walk of shame she'd probably have to take. She was a sad, drunken bitch who went out last night to get over her ex.

She wished she could say: That's not me. But it surely was.

Her quiet moment alone didn't last: the doorknob rattled, startling her.

"Sam? Is everything okay?"

Samira swallowed, clearing her throat. Every second she stayed was satisfying Harry's desire to delay the inevitable. Her mind raced—all of her things were in this bathroom—so one by one, she collected everything in her hands before opening the door.

She froze in her steps as their eyes met. Harry stood tall in front of her, already scrutinizing her every action. A dark color engulfed his irises, and his injured hands were flushed with pink. There was clear disappointment in his eyes, but Samira disregarded it. He wasn't getting to her. Not now. Being the feeble, fragile butterfly was fucking exhausting. The fury that welled inside called on her to sting madly at whatever came her way, a wasp.

"Samira—"

Before Harry could finish his sentence, Samira walked past him as if he were never there. She knew for a fact that his words would worsen her headache, and she was not in the mood for that. All she needed to do was leave, and she needed to do it now.