Cliche **Samara**

[blake]

Blake took a seat on the footsteps of the ice-cream parlor, having sent an owl to Samara shortly after the end of school. He hadn't seen her since then, and he had attempted to look his best. He feared he had tried to hard, the usual rips and tears in his jeans weren't there, and there was no smart-alec or suggestive comment on his T-shirt. The summer days were stretching longer and longer, and the sun was growing warmer. His hair was gelled into obedience, as he resisted the overpowering urge to run his hands through the sandy mess.

What kept his hands busy was the jewelry box in his hands, opening and closing it, keeping his anxious hands busy. This was a first for Blake. He had never had a steady relationship, and today he was taking the leap. Of course, he thought of that blond Slytherin, who he was sure was hiding devil horns beneath her curls. She had been one of the few he had opened himself to, and her pointy heels had walked all over his heart. He was hoping that Samara wouldn't do the same. She hadn't given him any reason to think she would, but the fear was still there. Samara had been as he was, wild and free. It was a dangerous risk, he knew, knowing she could run the other way in moments, but she was worth the risk.

He opened the box once again, plucking a stray hair from the black velvet. His summer job had given him just enough money to buy the necklace, in hopes that it would show Samara he was willing to give up his flings. The emerald tear drop stone was inlaid in silver, the chain alternating between emeralds and silver. It matched the fiery Slytherin, and the muggle woman he had bought it from insisted it would look fantastic. He had no eye for such thing, he'd never bothered to buy such things. He ran a hand through his hair, before panicking as he felt the gel on his hand. There was no mirror around for the vain boy as he struggled to tame his hair, immediately realizing how it made his hair stand on end in ridiculous ways. He glanced up to see someone approaching as he frantically tamed the loose ends of his stubborn hair.

[samara]

Samara was anxiously playing with her hair as she walked, examining her frame in every shop window she passed. Being a fiery spirit, she was the last person on Earth who would ever be fidgety, let alone nervous. But, sometimes, she just couldn't help herself. As far as Blake was concerned, Samara was not unlike every other lovestruck girl in Hogwarts, save for the fact that she knew how to keep a level-head... for the most part. The gorgeous blond boy was making things difficult.

Samara paused in front of the ice cream parlor, examining her reflection in the window. Her hair was curled slightly, and pinned back so it fell to just past her shoulders, rather than in ringlets down her back. The glittering emerald and silver pin she had in her hair was pulling at her scalp painfully, but it looked good. That's all that mattered to Samara. A silver locket hung around her neck, with her low-cut emerald blouse contrasting nicely with her fiery hair. The black skirt pulled everything together nicely, with green flats on her feet to match the blouse.

Sighing heavily, Samara pushed open the door, fixing her mascara quickly and glancing around. She was rather amused to see Blake with a look of pure panic on his face, and she couldn't help but smile, worry gone from her mind after taking one look at him. Stepping forward, she placed her hands on her hips. "Having trouble?"

[blake]

Perhaps that would have been the one moment he didn't want to see Samara, his hands tangled in his mess of a hair, which just seemed to curl even more the more he attempted to tame it. His face burned slightly, but he couldn't keep the grin from his face that was always there when he saw her. She looked amazing, as usual. He couldn't help but grin even more as he realized how stunning she could look in emerald. He kissed her lightly, thrilled she had come. He had had nightmares of her appearing with a boy on each arm, each better looking than Blake, although there were few who held that honor.

"Just a bit," he admitted as he pulled out the chair for Samara. No matter how many years he'd spent with women upon women, he'd never failed to pull out a chair or hold a door. No woman deserved anything less. He'd been the target of many jokes among his friends, saying the chivalrous deeds went against his womanizing ways, but Blake didn't let it get to him. Perhaps, the womanizing was behind him. Of course, that all depended on Samara. He sat across from her, the jewelry box in his pocket. He ran a hand over it, as if to assure it was still there, although he could feel the weight.

"You look fantastic," he hoped she never grew tired of hearing it. He meant it, she never failed to make his jaw drop. "How are you?" He asked, leaning back in his chair as he ran a hand through his hair, having given up all hope in taming it.