Harry began doing all the things he wanted to do as a boyfriend: he'd pick the stray eyelashes off Samira's cheeks, bring her sunflowers from his garden, and spend countless nights in her bed falling asleep next to her.
He started to be himself—it made Samira happy, comfortable.
It was another chilly weekend. Samira and Harry grew tired of taking strolls in the cold, so their activities were moved indoors—tonight, he'd invited her over to his place so they could cook dinner together and watch a movie afterward. She'd never been to his home before, and she could only wonder how it looked.
Samira stood in the elevator, talking to Mahnoor on the phone.
"How long have you two been going out now?" Mahnoor asked.
"More than two weeks," Samira answered, the elevator coming to a stop.
"Uh . . . have y'all had sex yet?"
Samira felt her heart jump. "No."
"Have you thought of it?"
"Um . . ." Samira mumbled.
She did—but pushed the idea away. There was endless sexual tension—channeled into heated make-outs and desperate touching—but Harry never asked that question.
But she knew he had thought of it too from his drunken words and indirect teasing—maybe they were both stalling.
"I haven't had sex since James," Samira then added. "I've been abstinent since."
"Yeah, because it's haram," Mahnoor reminded.
"Okay, I know I said I wouldn't do it." Samira bit her tongue. "But, you know, if it happens, you'll see me at the masjid the next day."
"Samira!"
"That was a joke!"
"Was it?"
"Maybe not."
"God, Mimi. Have you shaved?"
"I mean . . . yeah."
"You're too prepared. Stop acting like you don't want it to happen."
Samira stepped out of the elevator, remembering the number of Harry's apartment. The place seemed cozy, but the crisp scent lingering in the air smelled . . . expensive.
"Maybe I do, but it doesn't mean my iman disappeared," Samira retorted, rolling her eyes.
"I know, but still, I worry," Mahnoor replied.
"Yeah, too much," Samira reposted, knocking on the door of Harry's apartment. "I'm hanging up."
A moment later, the door slowly opened—Harry stood alone with a simper on his lips: "Hey."
Samira scrutinized him discreetly; he wore loose black trousers and a white graphic t-shirt. Samira hid a gulp, seeing the shape of his inked, muscular arms.
That's a tight-ass shirt.
"Oooh." Samira cleared her throat, smelling the fragrant aroma. "What are you cooking?"
"You'll see." Harry opened the door, allowing her in.
As Samira removed her shoes, she heard a jingly sound. When she looked down the hall, she found a dog running to the door. Samira's heart pounded in her ears; she squealed, embracing Harry immediately.
Shit, I forgot he had a dog.
"Babe, whoa," Harry laughed, wrapping his arms around her. "Are you afraid of dogs?"
Samira looked over his shoulder, catching her breath: "Just big ones."
His dog was a German Shepard. It was big and tall, with lively brown eyes. It gazed at Samira intensely, which made her a little nervous.
"She's friendly," Harry said, his lips near her ear. "It will take some time to get used to her."
"What's her name again?"
"Bea."
"Aha ha, cute," Samira chuckled awkwardly.
"She'll jump to get a better look at you," Harry said. "I'll make sure she doesn't."
Harry kept his arms around her as he escorted her to the kitchen. Luckily, Bea didn't follow them and went her own way.
When he let go, she glanced around the lavish apartment. The kitchen was extravagant with granite counters, his living room was clean with a big window in the middle, and the halls were long with paintings and pictures.
"This is a nice place," Samira complimented.
"Took a while to get settled," Harry replied.
Samira heard Bea's little footsteps. She stared at Samira for a moment, then rushed at her in full speed. Harry quickly took Samira by the hip, wedging her between him and the counter—Samira put her hands over her face, squealing, as Bea jumped onto Harry.
"Sit, Bea," He stated; Bea obeyed, but trotted away seconds later.
Then he turned to Samira: "You might have to let her jump on you at least once."
"As long as she doesn't lick me, that's fine."
Harry chuckled, letting go: "She might."
She followed Harry to the stove, looking at what was there. There were oil and spice in a saucepan.
"Cardamom . . . maanjal . . ." Samira began. "Are you cooking Desi food?"
"I'm trying," Harry replied, stirring with a wooden spoon. "I know it probably isn't authentic."
"What are you trying to cook?"
Harry smiled sheepishly. "Butter paneer."
Samira glanced to the right of the stove, seeing a cutting-board full of diced tomatoes. She contained a laugh, looking over at him.
"You weren't going to put all that in there . . . were you?"
Harry pursed his lips into an inept smile: "Unless you have a better idea."
Samira rummaged through Harry's kitchen, remembering the cooking skills her mother taught her. She found different ingredients like chili powder, black pepper, heavy cream, almost anything she'd use while cooking herself. She started adding a few things to his cooking, along with taking some away.
Whenever Bea walked by, Harry held her protectively—sometimes, he did it just because he wanted to.
Harry mentioned he had a package of naan in his freezer, but Samira suggested they'd ditch it and make roti from scratch.
"So . . . Mahnoor's mother taught you this?" Harry asked, pouring the flour in the steel bowl with the rest of the ingredients.
"Yeah," Samira answered, pulling up her sleeves.
Harry giggled, setting the butter down. "You bothered her family a lot, didn't you?"
Samira pursed her lips, shrugging: "It wasn't always fun at my house."
"What was fun at hers?"
"Going out with her, talking to her mom, pranking her brothers." Samira snorted, mixing the ingredients. "Oh, I unplugged their PS4 while they were about to win this match once. They still hate me for it."
"What about your brother?" Harry leaned against the counter, gazing at her.
"Who?"
"The one you hate."
Samira paused, squinting her eyes. "When did I tell you that?"
Harry lamented disappointedly: "Did you forget everything that happened that one day we played football in the rain?"
She might have forgotten—all she could remember was their argument over which football teams were better—it was a blur.
"Probably."
"Are you joking?"
Then Samira looked him in the eye. "Wallahi, no."
"Okay," Harry sighed. "Ayan, right?"
The sound of that name had her scrunching her nose. Samira grimaced, looking away as she continued kneading the dough.
"Why are we talking about him?"
Harry shrugged: "I'm curious as to why you hate him."
"There's a lot," Samira sighed, dividing the molded dough into little spheres. "Our age gap, how I don't see him very often."
"How old is he?"
"Thirty."
"Whoa."
"I know," Samira agreed. "We constantly fought as kids."
Harry slanted his head at her. "What did you two fight about?"
"A lot; I would tattle on him, he'd call me fat."
Harry's countenance went from curious to wry. He gazed at all of her, compressing his lips. "But you're not . . ."
"I was," Samira countered, raising an eyebrow; imagines of her old figure pervaded her mind. "Chubby as a kid, humongous in high school."
"Aw," he mused. "You didn't like yourself?"
"Nope." Samira patted the dough into flat rounds. "That's why I'm such an asshole now."
"Your confidence doesn't make you an asshole," Harry interjected, laughing. "No matter how you looked."
Buttering the hot pan, she snorted: "I wasn't taught to love myself that way."
Harry stood next to her, picking up the rounds from the counter and settling it onto the pan.
"I'm sure you were pretty."
"C'mon. You saw the ugliest."
"When?" He asked, his voice high pitched.
"When I cried." Samira cringed, scrunching her shoulders. "Yikes."
On his face, a confused smile. "Why?"
"Because I only ever cry in front of the people I love," Samira answered. "It's not like me to cry in the middle of nowhere."
"You had a reason to cry, darling."
"Still."
An hour later, they sat down together with all the dishes they cooked—roti, butter paneer, chicken salan, daal. Samira was surprised to see how Harry copied her by eating with his hands—she didn't have to teach him.
Harry witnessed the amount of chili powder Samira added to the paneer, so he refused to eat it, but Samira made him anyway. She fed it to him with the roti, expecting him to cry at its heat, but he handled it.
"I should give you a pet name," Samira suggested, sipping her water. "But in a different language. One in Tamil, maybe one in Arabic."
"Are those all the languages you know?" Harry asked, licking his fingers.
"Well, very little Sinhala," Samira answered. "So, yeah."
Her brain went from words her mother named her to phrases her father taught her. Samira was afraid she might mix up the languages she knew, as she did that a lot at home.
"Thangam?" Samira recommended. "It literally means gold, but gold is considered precious, so it means precious."
Harry squinched his eyes, attempting to say the word. "Thangam?"
"Wow," Samira mused, clapping her hands lightly. "Your pronunciation is on point, man."
"Thank you," Harry bowed his head.
"Hmm. Albi? In Arabic?"
Stars encompassed Harry's lively eyes, showing that foolish twinkle. "Doesn't that mean my heart?" His face reddened.
"Yeah," Samira replied with a giggle, her heart swelling at his softened gaze. "More meaningful than darling."
"But you like it when I call you that," Harry retorted, rolling his eyes playfully.
"Maybe."
They spent the rest of the night cleaning dishes. They argued about who cleaned the dirty kitchenware; Harry ended up standing by, wiping and stacking the plates after she washed them.
Once Samira finished rinsing everything, she ripped a paper towel to wipe her hands. But once she saw that wagging tail, her heart stopped.
Bea sat in front of her. Unfortunately, Harry wasn't paying attention; he mumbled thoughts, thinking she was listening.
Her hands grew clammy: "Harry," she whispered.
"Hmm?" He turned to her—his eyes widened. "Oh."
But before they could decide what to do, Bea leaped onto Samira's shoulders. The moment Bea barked, Samira squealed, covering her eyes.
"Get her off me," Samira begged, struggling to stay on her feet.
But Harry didn't do anything to get Bea off Samira; instead, he stood behind her, looking over Samira's shoulder.
"Seriously?" Samira scolded lowly, her heart hammering in her ears.
"Look at her," he said, holding her waist.
"Why—"
"Just do it."
Samira sighed, turning her head to Bea. They were face to face, staring at each other. It was strange, being this close to a dog. Nothing was too threatening, but Samira wasn't entirely comfortable; Samira feared she'd get licked, especially at the sight of Bea's excited panting.
"Be calm and say hi to her," he suggested, his lips to her ear. "She'll get off you."
Samira took a deep breath, hoping it would work. She stuttered, holding an awkward smile, "Hi, Bea."
Bea then tilted her head, eyes sparkling. Samira braced herself, grimacing—Bea then howled softly before jumping off her and running away.
Sighing with relief, Samira put her hands over her eyes: "Ya Rabbi."
"She likes you!" Harry stated eagerly.
When she turned around, she found him holding that stupid smirk. Samira clenched her jaw at his teasing, shoving his chest.
"You asshole," Samira cursed, jabbing at his chest with her fists. Harry put his hands up, defending himself as he laughed.
"I did that for a reason."
It turned into a playful game; his giggles softened her heart. As she kept hitting him, he tried to stop her by tickling her sides.
"Harry, stop!" Samira shrieked, pushing him away.
But he didn't; he gripped her wrists, halting her actions. Her eyes widened when his body pushed her, pressing her against the counter. He pinned her hands to the island; their hips aligned, chests touching.
The smaragdine in his eyes grew dark. Their lips brushed, filling the room with venereal tension. Samira's heart pounded as she felt the heat of his body practically bleeding through their clothes.
"What are you doing?" Samira asked quietly, a light exhalation escaping her.
Then she felt Harry loosen his grip and take a step back. He sighed, rubbing the edge of his nose.
"Nothing." He looked to the ground, holding a sheepish smile: "I um . . . I made a cake."
When he turned away, Samira covered her mouth, giggling quietly. She saw how much he wanted to take her, but she had no idea what held him back.
Maybe she'd have to scratch the bite first.