under the covers [hs au]

chapter forty-five.

"You're too slow," Omma complained. "Cut the pineapple next."

An ache crawled in Samira's hands as she stood in the kitchen, chopping various vegetables for her mother. She wore a big, oversized hoodie, her tangled bun of hair concealed under the hood. She bit her lips, struggling to hold the knife without shaking.

"Sorry," Samira mumbled, grimacing.

Omma set a large pineapple on the granite counter: "Make the curry."

Samira put the knife down, looking at the pineapple, then back at her mother.

"Do I have to?"

"I need to shower." Her mother adjusted the loose scarf on her head, rubbing her tired eyes. "Guests are coming later."

"But . . ." Samira bit her lip. "I'll just cut it. I want to do something else."

"This is the one thing I have for you." Omma clicked her tongue. "You never help me."

Closing her mouth, Samira took a deep breath through her nose, chest flooding with guilt.

"Alright, fine, I will do it."

Spices tickling her nose, Samira sneezed in her sleeve. A breeze flew through the window, and the sound of a lawnmower was faint in her ears. Her movements were as slow as a snail, and she hoped her mind would avoid the memory of why she refused to do this for her mother in the first place.

Samira gritted her teeth, mixing the ingredients in a pot. As it simmered, she cut the pineapple hastily.

But once Samira got the last piece, the knife fell to the floor, and she hissed. Clatter filled the room—she winced at the pain on her skin, watching the fresh slit on her thumb bubble with crimson.

"Samira, what is that?!"

"Nothing, ma," Samira replied, kneeling to pick up the knife.

"Moodevi."

Rolling her eyes, Samira ran her finger under cold water. She huffed at herself, struggling to plaster the bandage on her cut with her trembling fingers.

The bandaid sat disfigured on her finger; frustratedly, Samira kicked the counter in front of her. Taking a deep breath, she rested her forehead against the cupboard, eyes shut.

Samira.

Like an intruder, the bittersweet memory invaded Samira's brain, susurrating her name in his voice. She sealed her lips tightly, cringing.

Be careful next time.

Samira grimaced, shaking her head to block out the gut-wrenching sonance in her head.

"Fuck off," she mumbled.

A few moments later, the dish was cooked, its sweet and spicy aroma filling her senses. Samira stirred the sticky, golden curry with a wooden spoon—she hoped Omma would be satisfied with it and leave her be for the rest of the day.

After Samira washed her hands, she grabbed her keys and headed for the door. The moment she reached for the handle of her car, those familiar footsteps echoed behind her. Her heart sank.

"Hello, Samira kutty."

Wapa called Samira by her childhood pet name in a sing-songy voice. She watched her father approach her with a sheepish grin, dimples pressing into his cheeks.

"Hi," Samira mumbled, putting her keys in the pouch of her hoodie.

"How are you?" Wapa pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.