29. a date

It wasn't planned. At least, not officially.

Hamzah had just walked into the living room, tossing his keys onto the table, when he suddenly said, "Let's go out tonight."

I looked up from where I was sprawled on the couch, sketchpad in my lap, Red curled against my side. "Out where?"

"A date." He said it so casually, like it wasn't the thing that would send my brain into overdrive.

I blinked at him. "A... date?"

"Yeah." He shrugged, leaning against the counter. "We get dressed up, go somewhere nice, eat some good food. What do you say?"

I chewed my lip, trying to ignore the way my stomach flipped at the word date. This thing between us had been steadily growing, but neither of us had actually put a label on it.

I tilted my head, pretending to think. "Only if there's dessert involved."

Hamzah smirked. "Obviously."

"Then it's a yes."I narrowed my eyes at him, but I couldn't fight the smile creeping onto my face. It wasn't like we hadn't gone out together before, but tonight felt different. More intentional.

We turned the corner into a cozy little Italian restaurant tucked between a bookstore and a vintage record shop. It was the kind of place with dim lighting, candlelit tables, and the smell of fresh bread filling the air.

Hamzah pulled the door open for me, gesturing dramatically. "After you, ma'am."

I snorted. "So polite. Who are you trying to impress?"

He leaned in slightly as I walked past him. "I think you already know."

My stomach flipped, but I played it off, stepping up to the host. After a brief wait, we were led to a small booth near the window, the city lights visible just beyond the glass.

Hamzah ordered a pizza for us to share-half his favorite, half mine-while I toyed with my water glass, stealing occasional glances at him. There was something about seeing him in this setting, leaning back in the dim lighting, his gaze flicking between me and the menu like he wasn't quite sure where to focus.

"You're staring," he said suddenly, his lips twitching.

I scoffed, pretending to look at the menu instead. "I'm literally not."

"You totally are."

I huffed, shaking my head. "Maybe you're the one staring."

He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. "Maybe I am."

I swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of the warmth creeping up my neck. This wasn't like our usual back-and-forth. This was heavier.

A few minutes later, our food arrived, and the conversation shifted to safer topics-Mandy's latest video, Martin's ridiculous gaming rants, the kittens causing chaos at home. But there was still something lingering between us, something unspoken.

It wasn't until the plates were nearly empty, the wine in my glass dwindling, that Hamzah finally said it.

"Cora." His voice was softer now, more serious.

I looked up. "Yeah?"

He hesitated, then set his glass down. "What are we doing?"

I blinked. "We're... eating dinner?"

He gave me a look. "You know what I mean."

I did.

I sighed, tracing the rim of my glass. "I don't know," I admitted. "I mean, we keep pretending like nothing's changed, but..."

"But it has," he finished for me.

I nodded.

A beat of silence. Then, he reached across the table, his fingers brushing against mine. "I don't want to pretend anymore," he said.

My heart stuttered. "You don't?"

He shook his head. "No. I want this. You. Whatever this is, whatever we're calling it."

I exhaled a laugh, both nervous and relieved. "You sure? You might get sick of me."

Hamzah smirked. "Pretty sure I'm already sick in the head when it comes to you."

I rolled my eyes, but my fingers curled around his. "Fine," I said, smiling despite myself. "Let's make it official."

His grin softened, something warm settling in his eyes. "Good. About time."

And just like that, it wasn't a question anymore. It was us.