31. disgustingly domestic

Things didn't feel different, exactly. But there was an ease to it now-like something had settled into place without us realizing it needed to.

Hamzah and I still moved in the same rhythm, our banter just as sharp, our routines unchanged. But now there were new things too. His hand resting on my thigh absentmindedly while we watched TV. The way he'd kiss my temple in passing, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Waking up to texts that were less "what's for breakfast?" and more "miss you, even though you're literally in the other room."

It was strange and wonderful and a little terrifying.

And apparently, Martin and Mandy were having the time of their lives witnessing it.

"You two are disgustingly domestic," Mandy said as she watched me pack up my sketchpad while Hamzah grabbed his keys. We were heading out for coffee, but the way she said it, you'd think we were running errands for our shared mortgage and three kids.

I rolled my eyes. "We're literally just getting coffee."

"Yeah, and I bet he's gonna hold your hand the whole way there," she teased, wiggling her eyebrows.

Hamzah smirked. "Sounds like a good idea, actually."

Martin, who had been watching the exchange like it was the most entertaining thing in the world, snorted. "This is weird. Hamzah, you used to clown on people who did cringe couple stuff."

Hamzah shrugged, completely unapologetic. "Yeah, well, look at me now."

I groaned. "We're leaving."

Mandy and Martin dramatically blew us kisses as we walked out the door, and I didn't miss the way Hamzah laced his fingers with mine as soon as we stepped into the hall.

"They're not wrong, you know," I said, glancing up at him.

"About what?"

I smirked. "You've gone soft."

He leaned down, murmuring, "Only for you."

I was still recovering from that when we stepped outside, the crisp Toronto air nipping at our skin as we made our way to our favorite café.

Inside, the warmth of the space wrapped around us, the scent of coffee and fresh pastries filling the air. It was busy, but we managed to grab a small table near the window, our usual spot.

I pulled out my sketchbook, flipping through pages filled with recent pieces-some finished, some half-done. Hamzah watched over my shoulder, sipping his coffee.

"You've been drawing a lot," he mused.

I nodded. "I've been pulling together pieces for my portfolio."

His brow lifted. "The big submission thing?"

I sighed. "Yeah. It's kind of overwhelming, but I'm getting there."

He tilted his head, studying my latest sketch-a portrait of a woman with soft features and windswept hair. "It's insane how good you are."

I flushed at the sincerity in his voice. "Thanks."

He reached out, tracing a fingertip over the page like he was memorizing the lines. "What if I took you out after you submit it?"

I glanced up. "Like a celebration?"

"Yeah," he said, then smirked. "And also an excuse to spend the whole night making out without you stressing over deadlines."

I choked on my coffee.

Hamzah laughed, looking far too pleased with himself. "I'm just saying. Priorities, Cora."

I shook my head, trying to fight back a smile. "You're the worst."

But the truth was, I was already looking forward to it.