9. morning

The next morning came too quickly. I woke up to sunlight streaming through my curtains, my head heavy from the remnants of last night's drinks and the weight of the kiss I couldn't stop replaying in my mind. It felt surreal, like a dream I hadn't quite woken up from, except it was all too real.

I stayed in bed longer than usual, staring at the ceiling as the details replayed in my head: the softness of Hamzah's lips, the way his hands had held me so firmly but gently, the way his breath had hitched when we pulled apart. And then, the look in his eyes-so much said in that silence, and so much left unsaid.

I couldn't avoid him forever, though. My stomach growled, and I forced myself to get up, throw on a hoodie, and shuffle out into the kitchen.

Hamzah was already there, leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee in hand. He was scrolling on his phone, but the moment he heard my footsteps, he looked up. His expression was unreadable, but his usual easygoing smile wasn't there.

"Morning," he said, his voice softer than usual. "Morning," I replied, my own voice too quiet.

The air between us felt charged again, like we were both dancing around the elephant in the room but weren't sure how to address it. I grabbed a mug from the cupboard and poured myself some coffee, the mundane action grounding me just enough to keep my hands from trembling.

Neither of us spoke. The silence stretched, but it wasn't comfortable-not like it used to be. It was heavy, like a weight pressing down on both of us, demanding acknowledgment. I could feel his eyes on me as I stirred my coffee, and my pulse quickened, but I didn't look up.

"So, uh..." Hamzah began, his voice breaking the quiet. "Did you sleep okay?"

I glanced at him then, surprised by the question. He looked as nervous as I felt, his usual confidence replaced with something more vulnerable.

"Yeah," I said, though it was a lie. "You?" He shrugged, his lips twitching like he was trying to smile but couldn't quite manage it. "Yeah. I mean... not really, but yeah." I let out a small laugh despite myself, the honesty in his answer disarming me. "Same."

For a moment, things felt normal again. We both sipped our coffee in silence, the tension easing just slightly. But it didn't last long.

"Cora..." he started again, his tone shifting. He set his mug down on the counter and turned to face me fully. "About last night-" "Don't," I cut him off, my voice sharper than I intended. "Can we just... not?" His brow furrowed, but he didn't argue. He nodded slowly, leaning back against the counter again, though his eyes never left mine. "Okay. If that's what you want." "It's just... I don't know what to say about it," I admitted, my words rushing out before I could stop them. "And I don't want to make it weird." Hamzah let out a soft laugh, running a hand through his hair. "Cora, I think we're way past 'weird.'"

I couldn't help but smile at that, even though I felt a pang of guilt. He wasn't wrong. Things had been shifting between us for a while now, and last night had only brought it to the surface. But I wasn't ready to face it-not yet.

"I just... I don't want to ruin what we have," I said quietly, staring down into my coffee. "You're my best friend, Hamzah. And I don't know what this-what *we*-even means."

He was quiet for a long moment, and when I finally looked up, I saw something in his expression that made my chest ache.

"Yeah," he said softly. "I get it."

But the way he said it made me think he didn't-not completely.

We finished our coffee in silence, neither of us willing to push the conversation any further. It was easier this way, pretending nothing had changed, even though everything had.

The day passed in a blur. Hamzah spent most of it in his room, his door slightly ajar, the sound of his music filtering into the apartment. I stayed in the living room, sketching aimlessly, my mind too preoccupied to focus on anything meaningful.

By the time evening rolled around, I couldn't take the silence anymore. I knocked lightly on his door, pushing it open when I heard him mumble a quiet "Yeah?" He was sprawled on his bed, his laptop open next to him, but he closed it when he saw me. "Hey," he said, sitting up. "Hey," I said, lingering in the doorway. "I was thinking... maybe we could watch a movie or something?" His expression softened, and for the first time all day, he smiled. "Yeah. I'd like that."

We settled on the couch, a safe distance between us, and put on some random action movie neither of us cared much about. It felt familiar, comforting, like slipping back into a routine we both needed.

But even as we laughed at the ridiculous plot and traded sarcastic comments, I couldn't ignore the way my heart raced every time his arm brushed against mine. And I couldn't stop wondering if he felt it too.

By the time the credits rolled, the tension between us had returned, though it was softer now, less suffocating. We sat there for a moment, neither of us moving, the glow of the TV casting shadows across the room.

"Thanks for this," I said finally, my voice quiet. He turned to look at me, his expression unreadable again. "Anytime."

And even though I didn't say it out loud, I knew what I really meant: Thanks for not giving up on me.

As I got up to head to bed, I felt his gaze on me, and for the first time all day, I didn't feel afraid of it. I didn't know what we were, or where we were headed.