4. settling in

A week had passed, and I'd finally found myself settling into a rhythm. My days were spent painting in my room or wandering the city with my sketchbook. I'd even managed to organize my supplies into a system that made sense, though Hamzah called it "intimidatingly efficient."

Hamzah, on the other hand, had no discernible routine. He would either be filming random videos with Martin, disappearing for hours to who-knows-where, or crashing on the couch with his laptop, working on edits late into the night. Yet somehow, we always ended up on the same wavelength by evening, slouched on the couch binging movies or TV shows.

Today had been no different. I'd gone grocery shopping earlier in the day-something Hamzah seemed allergic to-and decided to make us dinner. I figured it was the least I could do since I'd already organized his bathroom and helped him clean up after a spilled soda incident in the living room.

The smell of garlic and onions filled the apartment as I stood over the stove, stirring a pot of pasta sauce. Hamzah wandered into the kitchen, his hair messier than usual and his beanie nowhere in sight.

"What's this?" he asked, leaning against the counter and sniffing the air. "Dinner," I said without looking up. "You know, that thing normal adults eat instead of living off instant ramen." "Hey, ramen is a perfectly valid meal," he said, pretending to be offended. "Not when it's all you eat." I shot him a look, and he held up his hands in surrender. "I'm just saying," he said, peeking into the pot. "This smells way better than anything I could make." "Which isn't saying much," I teased, pushing him back with a wooden spoon. He grinned. "Fair."

By the time the food was ready, Hamzah had set the table-though "set" was a generous term. He'd thrown a couple of plates and forks down haphazardly, leaving the sauce-stained pot in the center as a makeshift serving dish.

"Not bad," I said, carrying over a salad bowl. "Thanks," he said, pulling out a chair and sitting down. "I do what I can."

Dinner was surprisingly peaceful. Hamzah managed not to spill anything for once, and we spent most of the meal talking about random things-my classes, his YouTube channel and coffee spots we apparently have to go to.

"So, how's art school treating you?" he asked, swirling spaghetti onto his fork. "It's... a lot," I admitted. "Good, but overwhelming. Everyone is so talented. Sometimes I feel like I don't belong." Hamzah frowned. "That's stupid." "Thanks for the pep talk," I said dryly. "No, seriously," he said, leaning forward. "You're crazy talented, Cora. Anyone who's seen your work would say the same." I felt my face heat up. "You've only seen my finished stuff." "And it's amazing," he said, waving his fork for emphasis. "Don't let anyone make you feel otherwise." I smiled, a small warmth spreading in my chest. "Thanks, Hamzah."

After dinner, we moved to the couch, where a half-empty bag of chips and the remote awaited us.

"So," Hamzah said, flopping down beside me. "What are we watching tonight?" "Your pick," I said, tucking my legs under me. "Dangerous choice," he said with a grin, scrolling through the options.

He eventually settled on a cult sci-fi movie that I'd never heard of but quickly became engrossed in. Somewhere between the poorly rendered aliens and over-the-top fight scenes, Hamzah started narrating the characters' inner thoughts in ridiculous voices, and I couldn't stop laughing.

"Okay, okay," I said, wiping tears from my eyes. "This is officially the worst movie I've ever seen." "Excuse you," he said, pretending to be offended. "This is a masterpiece." "Of what? Bad decisions?" He laughed, throwing a pillow at me. I caught it and threw it back, hitting him square in the face. "Alright, that's it," he said, grabbing another pillow. "You've declared war."

The pillow fight ended with both of us out of breath and sprawled on the floor, laughing like idiots.

"You're impossible," I said, staring up at the ceiling. "You're the one who started it," he replied, grinning.

I rolled my eyes but couldn't help smiling. Despite the chaos-and his complete lack of organization-Hamzah had a way of making everything feel lighter.

As the credits rolled on the TV, I glanced over at him. As nostalgic as it felt there was something else there, another emotion slowly unveiling itself.

"You're pretty good company, you know?" I looked away, hoping he couldn't see the blush creeping up my cheeks. "Don't get used to it." "Too late," he said, smirking.

As I crawled into bed that night, I realized how much had changed in just a week. Toronto was still unfamiliar, and art school was still intimidating, but sharing with Hamzah felt right.