#leith ross

You didn’t mean to see him tonight. You only came because you missed Mandy and Martin, missed the comfort of the familiar. You hadn’t expected this kind of ache. Because when Martin walks in with someone trailing quietly behind him, you barely glance up. Not until your body knows before your brain does. Not until your heart stumbles.

Hamzah.

Martin says something forgettable and disappears down the hall, calling for Mandy—leaving the door swinging shut behind him. And leaving you with him.

The room hushes. Like it knows.

Your gaze lifts. Slowly. So does his. He stops mid-step. Freezes.

A flicker—shock, softness, something careful—passes through his eyes. He’s holding a beanie in one hand. His hair is bleached, messy, cropped but growing out. Dark roots coil through blond like shadows threading light. It suits him. The glasses low on his nose make him look older. Softer.

He looks different.

Perfect.

You stay curled on the couch, still as breath.

He swallows—obvious, slow—like he’s grounding himself. Like he didn’t expect this moment either.

Laughter muffles from the other room. Distant. Far away enough to feel like another world.

And then, he says your name.

Plain. Gentle. Like he’s been rehearsing it. Like maybe he missed saying it.

Then he moves. Quiet, sure. Crosses the room and lowers himself onto the coffee table in front of you—so close, your knees crash. No room. No hesitation. And still, he stays. So do you.

The silence between you isn’t awkward. Instead, it’s heavy. Heavy with all the things neither of you said. But your eyes say them now.

Your chest tightens beneath the weight of his presence. He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, beanie crumpled in one hand. You study him. The tension in his shoulders. The parting of his lips, like he wants to speak but doesn’t want to scare the moment away.

You wonder if he notices your knee touching his. You wonder why you want him to. You wonder why he hasn’t moved.

He smells the same. Clean laundry, warm skin, something faint and earthy that used to cling to the hoodies he left behind. The scent rises like muscle memory. You missed the way his presence consumed you.

“I’ve seen you,” you murmur, unsure why you’re saying it. “Just… online.”

He nods. Once. Slow. “But not really.”

“No,” you say. “Not really.” Your voice cracks a little. He hears it. Feels it. He doesn’t look away.

“You look different,” you say. Perfect, you want to add. But you bite your tongue.

He smiles—small, knowing. “Yeah...you too.”

“Bad?” you ask, a soft scoff. Your subtle attempt at lightening the mood, at fighting the heavy tension.

But his smile twitches into something more real. “Perfect.”

The word settles between you like a hush. Like something sacred. And suddenly the air shifts. Your lungs are full and empty at once.

He fidgets—tapping one finger against his leg. Your knees still touch, you can feel his fingers ever so lightly. Still, he doesn’t move.

He’s trying not to overstep. You can feel it in every inch of him. But the room is pulsing with this tension.

So you speak.

“It’s nice,” you whisper. He tilts his head, waiting.

“I don’t wonder about your indifference.”

His lips part. A beat. Then something steadier moves in—something confident, gentle. “You shouldn’t have to.”

“I don’t.”

“Not with you.”

His eyes linger. Heavy, soft. Something burns in them that he won’t say. But he doesn’t need to.

“It’s weird,” he says after a beat. “Seeing you again. I didn’t know how much I missed this… just you.”

You can only nod—words feel too fragile. Even though your mind is practically overflowing with all the things you can say.

“I waited for your text,” he adds. This time, he doesn’t look away.

You inhale—sharp. He watches it happen. Watches like it matters.

“I waited for you,” he says. Emphasis quiet but certain.

It hits you. Not like fireworks, not some grand crescendo— But like a gentle hand pressed to your chest.

He felt it. All of it. Every almost. Every ache.

And now, suddenly, the months between you don’t matter. Because he’s looking at you like this. Like you were something. Like you still are.

His finger brushes your knee. Featherlight. Intentional. You know it’s not an accident—he’s watching you too closely. That look. Yearning. Gentle. Unmistakable.

Like if you told him he could never touch you, he’d still come over—just to tell you you look lovely.

You don’t look away. You can’t.

Because something in the silence feels sacred.

Hamzah doesn’t move closer—not yet. He stays still for a breath too long. Like he’s deciding if this is real.

Then, carefully, his hand lifts.

Not confident. Not cocky. Just open, honest. His knuckles graze your cheek. So soft it almost startles you. Not from fear—but from how much it means.

You didn’t know he could be this gentle.

But with you, he is.

The difference between the version of him in his videos, with Martin, with the world— And the version of him here, now— It strikes something deep.

In private, in quiet—he’s softer. Vulnerable.

He treats you like porcelain. Not because you’re fragile. But because he chooses to be careful. Because he cares.

His fingers hover now at your jaw, not quite touching. Not quite pulling away. Just…offering.

Then he looks at you. Just a glance. But you understand.

You nod. Barely. Your eyes flick once to his lips, and that’s all it takes.

His mouth finds yours—not with urgency, not with hunger— But with care.

He kisses you like this is the moment he waited for. Not to win. Not to claim. But to feel. His hand steadies at your cheek. His thumb brushes your skin.

He tastes like breath and memory.

When he pulls back, it’s barely—just enough to rest his forehead to yours. Eyes closed. Stillness breathing between you.

And when he kisses you again, it’s fuller. Warmer. But still so careful.

When he finally leans back, his hand drifts across your leg before settling at his side. Neither of you speaks. There’s too much to say. So you don’t.

But his lips press together, fighting a smile. He loses. Just barely. And it’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever seen.

He kissed you—just to kiss you. Not to take you home, not to make you cry. It was simple. Sweetness.

It was good to know.

Then he rises, only to sit beside you. No reaching. No talking. Just being. And somehow, you feel that’s all he meant to do.

Because it was.

You let it settle in you like air. Not a beginning. Not an ending. Just this, a quiet knowing. A door opened without creaks.

You don’t even look at each other right away. You just sit there, side by side, your shoulder gently brushing his.

And then, a door creaks open.

Footsteps and laughter progressively near. It’s Mandy’s and Martin’s voice.

Even with them now here, the spell doesn’t shatter, exactly—it just folds itself gently away, tucked into the quiet between you as they enter the room.

Mandy beams at you, barefoot and laughing. “Sorry we took forever,” she says, nudging your knee. “Martin was talking about something—I’ll tell you in a sec.”

You nod, smiling—maybe a little too wide. You know it. But it’s still blooming. You might not stop smiling for days.

Mandy talks. But your eyes drift. Past her, toward the hallway.

Martin’s calling Hamzah now, saying something about filming something dumb before the light disappears. They’re already heading down the hallway.

Just before stepping into the other room, Hamzah glances back.

Only once.

A single look over his shoulder—at you, of course. No smile, no wink. Just a quiet tether.

And in that half-second, everything slows.

Mandy’s still talking beside you, but her voice blurs, distant. Because all you can feel is him. That look.

Like a promise without words. Like something sacred, held only between the two of you.

And then he’s gone. But not really.