under the covers [hs au]

chapter thirteen.

Thunder shook the floor, interrupting Samira's slumber.

She inhaled deeply, lifting her head up. Her room was gloomy; shadows of the racing droplets on the window roamed from the wall to the floor until they disappeared.

Harry lay next to her, his arm still wrapped around her waist and his head buried in her neck, fast asleep. His hair was a disheveled mess, his lips were parted, and his body was slumped onto her. A light smile appeared on her lips, and she watched him breathe peacefully.

Before she got up, her hand pressed to his chest—she didn't mean to squeeze it—and a light gasp escaped her. It was soft but firm, sparking her inquisitiveness. Her eyes observed him like he was a portrait, from his detailed neck to his ornamented collarbones. The first few buttons of his shirt were open, unveiling parts of his toned chest and stomach.

Her lip clamped between her teeth. Can he get any more attractive?

But Samira snapped her head away, ashamed of her thoughts.

Taking his arm off her warily, she sat up, stretching. She grew uncomfortable, realizing she had slept in the clothes she wore last night. Her arms were bare and the very top of her breasts was exposed—it was the most skin Harry had seen.

Samira left the bed, taking her clothes out of the closet. She tiptoed into the bathroom, shutting the door carefully.

She left out a few things she thought Harry might need, like ibuprofen and a spare toothbrush. After taking a brisk shower, she dressed in her work clothes, remembering the booking she had in two hours.

The rain pattered on the windows as Samira walked back into the room, and she saw he was still deep asleep. She thought of a proper way to wake him—although he was cozy, she couldn't let him sleep for too long since he might have had plans of his own.

"Harry?" Samira rubbed his cheek, attempting to wake him. He began to stir, so she called his name a few more times.

He raised his eyebrows, confused, as he looked around the room. The second they locked gazes, he covered his eyes, embarrassed with a sheepish smile.

"Good morning," Samira chuckled.

He parted his middle and index finger, peering one eye at her. Then he closed it back.

"Hey, Samira," he replied, his voice gravelly.

"How are you?" She asked.

"Terrible." He finally took his hands off his eyes, showing liveliness and blinking slowly.

Samira gave him a moment to settle, remember why he was in her home. The moment of silence led him to keep his eyes on her, but she couldn't exactly read why he was scrutinizing her face.

"So . . . I'm here because?" He asked, his face reddening.

"You were drunk as fuck," Samira answered.

"Jesus Christ," Harry groaned, rubbing the edge of his nose. "I must have said a lot of shit last night."

His drunken words echoing in her brain, Samira bit the inside of her cheek: "A lot."

"Okay, well . . . tell me what happened. I can take it," he said, running a hand through his hair.

Harry thought he said too much, but he didn't; he told him everything she needed to hear and nothing could be taken back. Now, it was impossible for either of them to beat around the bush.

"Are you sure? " Samira snickered. "You would be surprised at what you said."

Harry shook his head. "It's fine, tell me."