18. labels

It seemed we subconsciously decided not to put a label on what we were. There was an unspoken agreement between us-no discussions, no definitions, just a quiet understanding that whatever was happening, it was ours.

The days slipped by in a blur of comfortable silences and stolen glances. It wasn't just the big moments that defined us now; it was the smaller ones, too. The way Hamzah would brew my tea exactly the way I liked it in the morning, even when he was groggy and half-awake. Or the way I'd leave sticky notes on his desk with little sketches of things he loved-his favorite video game characters, a badly drawn cup of coffee with a grinning face, or just random doodles that I knew would make him laugh.

We still spent time with Martin, Mandy, and the others, but there was something intimate about the spaces we shared alone. It wasn't overwhelming or rushed; it was just... easy.

One evening, as I worked on my art project at the dining table, Hamzah sat on the couch behind me, a game controller in his hands and the low hum of his favorite RPG filling the apartment. The warmth of his presence was comforting, grounding me as I focused on the intricate details of my latest sketch-a sprawling cityscape inspired by the lights of Toronto.

"You've been at that for hours," Hamzah said, glancing over his shoulder. "Aren't your hands cramping up yet?" I smiled without looking up, my pencil gliding across the paper. "They're fine. And you've been playing that game for hours, so maybe you should take a break." "Touché." He chuckled, setting the controller down and stretching his arms over his head. "What are you working on this time?" "A piece for class," I said, holding it up so he could see. "It's supposed to capture the feeling of a city at night. Still rough, but..."

Hamzah crossed the room to stand behind me, leaning down to get a closer look. His scent-coffee and that subtle woodsy cologne he always wore-washed over me, making my pulse quicken.

"That's amazing," he said, genuine admiration in his voice. "You're seriously talented, you know that?" I felt a blush creeping up my neck, but I kept my focus on the drawing. "Thanks, Hamzah. But it's not done yet." "Doesn't matter," he said softly, his voice closer now. "It's beautiful. You're beautiful."

The words hung in the air between us, and I turned my head to look at him. His eyes were warm, filled with something I couldn't quite name, and for a moment, the rest of the world faded away.

"Hamzah..." I whispered, unsure of what to say. He leaned in, his hand brushing mine lightly as he steadied himself on the table. "You don't have to say anything," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "I just-"

But before he could finish, I closed the space between us, pressing my lips to his in a kiss that was soft and sweet and everything I hadn't realized I'd been longing for.

This kiss was different from the others-not rushed, not frantic. It was deliberate, a slow unraveling of everything we had been holding back. His hand moved to cup my cheek, and I felt his thumb trace a gentle path along my skin.

When we finally pulled apart, our foreheads resting together, we both laughed softly, the kind of nervous laughter that comes from realizing you've crossed another line but not wanting to go back.

"Well," he said, his voice teasing but his eyes serious, "that escalated quickly." "Shut up," I said, rolling my eyes, but I couldn't keep the smile off my face. He chuckled, stepping back and giving me space to breathe. "Okay, okay. But seriously, Cora, whatever this is... I'm here. No pressure, no expectations. Just... here." I nodded, my heart swelling at his words. "Me too." He grinned, ruffling my hair playfully before retreating back to the couch. "Now finish your masterpiece, Picasso. I'll keep the commentary to a minimum."

I laughed, turning back to my sketchpad. As I worked, I could feel his gaze on me every so often, and it filled me with a quiet kind of happiness.

We might not have had a label, but whatever this was, it was ours. And for now, that was enough.