12. crossed a line

The next morning was heavy with unspoken words.

I woke up earlier than usual, sunlight spilling into my room and painting everything in a soft glow. My heart felt restless, my thoughts circling the kiss like a hawk spiraling its prey. Hamzah and I had crossed a line-again-and I couldn't shake the feeling that this time, there was no going back.

I sat at my desk, pretending to sketch, but the lines on the page blurred into nothingness. My mind was stuck on the way his hand had cupped my face, the quiet intensity of his eyes when he looked at me afterward, like he was seeing something he hadn't expected.

What were we even doing?

A light knock at my door startled me, and before I could answer, Hamzah peeked his head in.

"Morning," he said, his voice softer than usual. He was holding two mugs, the smell of coffee wafting in with him. "Morning," I replied, setting my pencil down. My heart was already racing. He stepped inside and placed one of the mugs on my desk before leaning against the doorframe, his other hand wrapped around his own coffee. "You're up early." "Couldn't sleep." "Same."

The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable, but it wasn't exactly easy either. It was filled with everything we weren't saying, everything I knew we needed to talk about but couldn't bring myself to start.

Hamzah tilted his head, studying me. "You okay?" "I don't know," I admitted, surprising even myself with my honesty.

He nodded, as if he understood. And maybe he did.

"I was thinking..." He trailed off, running a hand through his hair. "Maybe we could get out of here for a bit. Clear our heads." I blinked, caught off guard. "Like where?" "There's this park not too far from here. Quiet, good for thinking. Or avoiding thinking." He grinned, and despite everything, I couldn't help but smile back. "Okay," I said, standing up. "Let me grab my jacket."

The park was nestled between rows of old townhouses, a hidden pocket of green in the middle of the city. The trees were bare, their branches reaching up to the gray sky, but there was something peaceful about the stillness.

Hamzah led the way to a bench near the edge of the park, overlooking a small pond. We sat down, and for a while, neither of us spoke.

I sipped my coffee, letting the warmth seep into my hands. The tension between us wasn't as sharp out here; it felt like the cold air had softened it, made it easier to breathe.

"About last night," Hamzah finally said, breaking the silence. My stomach tightened. "Yeah?" He glanced at me, his expression serious but not heavy. "I don't regret it."

I wasn't sure what I'd been expecting him to say, but it wasn't that.

"You don't?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. He shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "No. Do you?"

I looked down at my coffee, the steam curling into the air. Did I regret it? The kiss had felt like stepping into uncharted territory, terrifying and exhilarating all at once. But regret? No, I couldn't say I regretted it.

"I don't know," I said honestly. "That's fair," he said, leaning back against the bench. "It's... a lot." "Yeah."

We sat in silence again, the weight of his words hanging between us.

"I just..." He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't want to mess this up, you know? Whatever this is."

I looked at him, my chest tightening at the vulnerability in his voice. Hamzah, for all his confidence and charm, rarely let his guard down like this.

"Me neither," I admitted. He turned to me, his eyes searching mine. "So what do we do?"

I didn't have an answer. All I knew was that the space between us felt impossibly small, and the idea of going back to the way things were seemed as impossible as moving forward.