glimpses of you pt. 1 | hamzah x editor!reader
rating | slightly suggestive, nothing too crazy though
warning | semi-proofread! smoking of ganja lol
author's note | will be rewriting this slightly because i hate most of this but i wanted to put something out :) also my first series ayeeeee
YOU HAD FOUND YOURSELF IN THE DESPERATE PREDICAMENT OF EITHER KILLING YOURSELF OR TURNING TO ONLYFANS.
Both options felt equally unappealing, and frankly, a little extreme for what the was, at its core, a mundane problem: you were broke. Flat out. You were just another college student drowning in debt, tuition fees rising like clockwork, and your part-time gig at the campus café barely covering any of your basic expenses. Still, you didn’t fancy having your ass plastered on the internet, and suicide seemed a bit tedious if not dramatic. So there you were, perched on the rickety communal library computer, two minutes left on your internet credits, with the only things popping up on your screen were clearly scams or were posted by “Jessica” or “Alex” living 5km away who, shockingly, wouldn’t be resolving your financial crisis.
Then, as though God had decided to throw you a bone, you saw it: a post for a part-time video editor.
The job was listed by someone named Mandy, a vet who was working as a vet but also did YouTube on the side, and working full-time with animals didn’t leave much time for Adobe Premiere on her end. The pay was decent—more than decent, really—and seemed almost too good to be true. You clicked her socials out of pure paranoia, half expecting her to be some creepy guy with a burner profile and you realised then and there, in the library of your communal college, all the years spent in highschool doing edits would now finally pay off. Literally.
Without thinking twice, you messaged her and said you’d take the job.
The next day, she sent you a zip file with raw footage, and that’s when it all began.
Editing for Mandy became your saving grace. She sent you a few videos every other week, and you gradually got better at your craft. So much so, in fact, that Mandy stopped reviewing your work altogether. She uploaded everything you sent her without a second glance, calling your edits “art” like you were the second coming of Stanley Kubrick.
Which was an odd thing really. The trust she had in your work - which she’d call ‘art’. It was nice how much she trusted you so much with something so important to her, yet she didn’t really you know you beyond your name, your availabilities and the fact you had a roommate and said roommate needed your help with schoolwork thus leading you to being a bit slower with the updates on a video.
It was kind of difficult not forming a weirdo pseudo-parasocial relationship with her, on your end - after all you’d edit her most intimate moments. Her videos consisted mainly of her and her boyfriend, who you’d come to find out name is Martin. You knew so much about her life - her quirks, her habits, her boyfriend, Martin. He was nice and easy-going. Funny even - you remembered laughing when he noted his surprise that you were just some college student who did Justin Bieber edits back in highschool and not a certified editor. You laughed along, but his words stuck with you. You were just some college kid. And yet, you knew the most intimate corners of their lives—their inside jokes, their fights, the way Martin looked at Mandy when she wasn’t paying attention. Something about the love they had for each other stirred something ugly in you.
Eventually, she wanted to meet up with you. The message came a little out of nowhere. It was around 10am after you had just bombed a test, and you were bed-rotting in your dorm room when you felt your phone buzz and your eyebrows furrow when her caller-ID popped up. “I just feel bad,” she’d remarked in a over the call. In the background you could hear her dog Rudy, if you recall, playing in the background. “You’ve done so much for me, and I barely know you. Let me take you out as a thank-you.” She followed up by saying she wanted to go somewhere downtown, cozy - you rejected as, although it was sweet, but honestly being paid was a thank you enough (as well as the fact that you could barely afford some of the places she suggested) - but she was relentless in her generosity so you gave up, put on the most “I am not a broke college student and this restaurant you suggest will definitely not financially break me” outfit you could find in the depths of your, and your roommate, closet and met up with her. The dinner was…nice. Mandy was calmer than you’d expected, a bit blunt, but funny in a way that made you feel at ease. By the end of the night, after too many drinks and a waiter accidentally spilling pasta all over you both, you’d started to think of her as a friend.
You began hanging out at her shared apartment with her boyfriend, sometimes sleeping over with her in the same bed (her boyfriend, Martin, banished to the couch). You’d watch movies till the sun came up and helped yourself to breakfast without having the typical self consciousness of being a guest.
And then you met Hamzah.You’d gone to Mandy’s to pick up a bag of clothes you’d left behind. She’d given you a spare key ages ago—it was easier that way, she’d said—and you hadn’t thought twice about letting yourself in. You figured you’d grab your things and leave unnoticed.
As you walked past Martin’s office, though, you froze.
Sitting in one of the gaming chairs was someone you’d only seen in clips before. Hamzah.
He was leaning back, scrolling through his phone, a dab pen loosely held in one hand as he exhaled a slow cloud of smoke. He hadn’t noticed you at first, not until the floor creaked beneath your weight. His head lifted, brows furrowing as his eyes landed on you.
“Uh, hey,” you said, awkwardly waving.
Before he could respond, the bathroom door opened, and Martin appeared, wiping his hands dry on a towel.
“Oh, hey, Y/N!” Martin grinned. “Here for your stuff? It’s in the bedroom.”
You nodded, eager to move past the awkwardness, but as you left the room, you caught the brief exchange of looks between the two men.
“Who’s that?” Hamzah asked, his voice low but not low enough for you to miss.
“Mandy’s editor,” Martin replied. “You know, the one I told you about.”
Hamzah hummed, and though you were already walking away, you couldn’t help but feel his eyes trailing after you.
After you left, you weren’t really sure how to feel about seeing Hamzah. You knew you had to get used to him, especially considering he was just as close to Martin and Mandy as you were, if not even closer. It was strange, weird even. You knew a lot more about him than you should’ve - you’d seen him before, of course—in Mandy’s footage, in the background of videos you’d spliced together, laughing with Martin, rolling his eyes at a bad joke. But seeing him in person was something else entirely. You wanted to know more about him though, you weren’t sure if that was weird. The memory of his gaze stayed with you longer than it should have. You felt weirder about the fact that you didn’t feel weird enough about it, that you did sometimes wonder what he was thinking of when tying strings of footage together. You found yourself replaying footage of where he smiled more than other pieces of footage. Maybe you were weird.
Martin and Mandy were throwing a get together. It was small, Mandy assured you when she noticed you wavered, picking up upon your your reluctance. “Me, Martin, and a few friends. Totally lowkey.”
You should’ve realised that meant he’d be there.
Hamzah wasn’t exactly thrilled about the idea of a party, but the thought of hanging out with Martin made it tolerable. That, and the unspoken promise of weed, along with the fact that it wasn’t going to be some huge, overwhelming crowd. Just Mandy, Martin, Chase, Claire, and a handful of their friends who weren’t part of their usual social media circle.
What bothered him, though, was the mention of a “special someone.”
Martin had been annoyingly vague, but Hamzah knew. It had to be you.
He’d caught himself that day, when his eyes lingered on you far too long as you stood in the doorway of Martin’s office. The second he let it slip, Martin noticed. Martin always noticed. And once Martin had something like that to tease him with, it was game over.
To Martin, it was probably exciting—Hamzah showing genuine interest in someone for once, and not just anyone but someone in their circle. Hamzah, on the other hand, was already bracing for the sly comments, the well-timed nudges, the not-so-subtle efforts to push him into a conversation with you. By the time he was on his way to the party, he already had a headache from overthinking. Worse still, he could feel another one building as he tried - and failed - to think of something, anything, to say that wouldn’t immediately come off as awkward or disinterested. And what if he did mess it up?
The idea of talking to you shouldn’t have felt so monumental, but somehow, it did.
You walked into the party with your roommate, Candance, who was dying to meet the so-called Mandy who, ever since entered your life, seemed responsible for your sudden ability to start paying for your own drinks when you and her went out. Candance was buzzing with the need to socialise and almost immediately departed from you to talk to Mandy’s female friends, one of which being a girl who believed was named Clara or Claire? You weren’t really sure, you tried to avoid Mandy’s other friends, Not for any strange or unkind reason—it was just how you were. Conversations with Mandy’s friends always seemed to trip you up, words slipping out of rhythm, leaving you stranded in awkward silences. Even Mandy’s good-natured attempts to bring you into her group couldn’t quite shake the feeling that you didn’t belong - that you were simply a girl who just edited her videos.
So, you’d drifted, quiet and unnoticed, until you found solace on the balcony. The Toronto air was crisp, a faint chill weaving through the hum of the party inside. You laughed as you noticed someone, Martin probably, had started blasting Nettspend. You leaned against the railing, fishing a blunt from your pocket, and lit it with practiced ease. The first inhale hit like an exhale—something uncoiling in your chest as the smoke curled upward, vanishing into the dark.
Hamzah stepped into the party, the familiar rhythm of low laughter and muted music settling around him. He made a beeline for the drinks, grabbing a red cup filled with liquid courage (something he’d need plenty of).
It didn’t take Martin long to corner him, practically bouncing with thinly-veiled amusement.
“So, where’s this ‘special someone’ you mentioned?” Hamzah asked, feigning casual indifference.
Martin’s smirk was immediate, sly and deliberate, as he gestured toward the balcony. “Out there.”
Hamzah followed his line of sight. You were leaning against the railing, the soft glow of the city lights flickering against the smoke curling from your hand.
“What do I even say, man?” Hamzah muttered, suddenly too aware of the weight in his chest, the too-familiar flutter of nerves threatening to undo him.
Martin shrugged, already stepping away, his grin widening. “I don’t know. Maybe start with hello? Or ask for a hit?” Hamzah sighed. Hamzah sighed, half-resigned, as he watched Martin retreat into the party, clearly pleased with himself. He really needed to get Martin to stop meddling in his love life—or, as both Martin and Mandy liked to point out, his complete lack of one.
Still, here he was, stepping out onto the balcony before he could overthink it. You hadn’t noticed him yet, your attention fixed on the glow of the city beyond the railing. It wasn’t until the soft creak of the door closing behind him startled you that you turned, wide-eyed.
“Oh, shit,” you exhaled, clutching your chest. “I didn’t see you there.”
Hamzah raised his hands in mock surrender, a small grin tugging at his lips. “My bad.”
“Do you do this often?” you asked, recovering quickly. “Creep up on people?”
“Do I look like I creep up on people?” he shot back, a flicker of amusement in his tone.
You tilted your head, pretending to consider it. “I don’t really know you.”
“Fair point,” he conceded, leaning against the railing beside you.
When he gestured toward the blunt in your hand, you passed it to him without hesitation. He took a drag, and something about the faint taste of cherry on the filter made him pause, his heart betraying him with a quick flutter.
“So,” he started, exhaling slowly, trying to mask his nerves with feigned ease, “what do you know about me?”
“Your address,” you said flatly, with a nonchalance that made him blink in surprise.
“What?” His eyes widened, and he gave you a look that silently demanded an explanation.
“In Mandy’s videos,” you clarified, smirking as you watched his alarm shift into sheepish realization. “When they visit you, the background gives away your street and house number. I’ve had to edit it out and censor it.”
“Oh. Damn.” He winced, scratching the back of his neck.
“You’re welcome for not doxxing you,” you said with mock seriousness, plucking the blunt back from his fingers.
“Thanks,” he muttered, exhaling a stream of smoke that curled into the cold night air.
For a moment, the silence between you wasn’t awkward. It hung there, fragile and almost weightless, like the smoke that lingered before dissolving into nothing.
You both stood there for what felt like an eternity, the air thick with the smoke, your thoughts muddled by the high creeping through your veins. The party had been loud, the music had pulsed in your ears, but out here, on the balcony, everything felt quiet. Just the two of you and the low hum of the city below.
Hamzah’s gaze was steady, yet unreadable. You could feel his presence in the space between you—close, but not close enough. It was like you both were hesitant, waiting for something to shift, to give you the sign that it was okay to lean in further.
“So,” he started, voice a little lower than before, “this is where you come to hide, huh?”
You half-laughed, half-sighed, glancing down at the blunt between your fingers before looking up at him. “Yeah. It’s easier to think out here. Or forget, I guess.”
“Forget what?” His tone was gentle, but curious. His eyes didn’t leave yours.
You paused, biting your lip. “Stuff. Life. Whatever.” The words felt a little too raw, too honest for this moment, and you quickly added, “I’m not a big fan of parties, anyway. Too much noise. Too many people pretending they’re happy.”
“Yeah, I get that,” Hamzah said softly, his voice seeming to drop even lower. He stepped a little closer, and you had to resist the urge to step back. His proximity didn’t feel intrusive—it felt electric, like you were both standing on the edge of something. “I don’t really do parties either.” He paused, looking down for a second before meeting your eyes again. “But I like the quiet. The realness. The moments where you can just... breathe.”
You swallowed, suddenly aware of how dry your mouth was. “Yeah, me too.”
There was a moment of silence, and it felt heavy in the air. Your fingers brushed his, the contact brief but enough to send a ripple of warmth through your chest. Your heart skipped a beat, and you found yourself wondering if he felt it too.
“Y’know,” Hamzah began, his voice even quieter now, “I never really thought I’d be sitting on a balcony with Mandy’s editor, talking about life.”
You smirked, trying to lighten the tension. “And yet, here we are.”
He chuckled, but the sound was low, almost intimate, and you noticed the way his gaze flickered down to your lips before darting back to your eyes.
Your heart raced in your chest, and suddenly, everything felt a little too much. The weed, the energy between you, the overwhelming urge to close the space between you.
“I—” You started, but your words faltered. You didn’t know what you wanted to say, only that something had shifted, something that felt too important to ignore.
Hamzah took a step closer. His hand brushed the side of your arm, his touch lingering, just enough to make your pulse quicken. He tilted his head slightly, studying you, as if searching for some kind of sign.
You could feel the heat rising between you, the weight of his presence pressing in. “You okay?” he asked, his voice soft, but you heard the underlying question—something more than just your state of mind.
You nodded quickly, but then your nerves caught up with you. You could feel the anxiety building, and before you could second-guess yourself, you blurted, “This is weird, isn’t it?”
Hamzah smiled faintly, “not really, I think you’re nice.”
The words hung in the air for a moment, and then, without thinking, you found yourself leaning in closer to him. Your lips were so close you could almost feel the heat between them, but then—just before you closed the space—your nerves overtook you. You stopped yourself, your breath catching in your throat.
Hamzah froze too, his eyes locking onto yours, both of you so close yet not quite there. The moment was suspended, hanging in the air like a breath waiting to be exhaled.
“I…” You pulled back slightly, the tension between you thick and palpable now. Your heart pounded in your chest, and you could feel your face flush. Fuck you hated being high. “Sorry. That was… stupid.” You stepped back a little more, suddenly feeling too exposed, too vulnerable.
Hamzah didn’t move right away, his eyes still locked on you. He looked like he was weighing something, deciding something. “No, it’s not stupid,” he said quietly, his voice steady, but you could hear the hesitation there too. He ran a hand through his hair, as if trying to gather himself. “I just—don’t want to make things weird.”
You nodded, but the knot in your stomach didn’t loosen. The air felt charged, and you couldn’t decide if you were relieved or disappointed. “Right.” You cleared your throat. “I should go.”
Hamzah didn’t say anything, just gave a small nod, his expression unreadable. You turned away quickly, as if running from the tension, and walked back inside. The party felt suffocating now, the music and laughter too loud, the distance between you and Hamzah somehow stretching even farther despite what had just happened.
You could feel your heart beating fast in your chest, the weight of everything swirling inside you. Your mind raced, replaying the moment over and over. What if you’d leaned in? What if you hadn’t pulled away?
You asked Candance if she wanted to go home, and naturally, with her charisma she had become good friend’s with one of Mandy’s friends and was knee deep in a tea-spilling session.
You wished her goodbye grabbed your things and hurried out of the apartment, your pulse still racing as you made your way home. The high was still with you, the dizziness mixing with the anxious energy that had taken root in your chest. You couldn’t shake the feeling of his presence, like an echo, lingering in your mind.
As you stepped into your dorm, you kicked off your shoes and collapsed onto your bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to make sense of the mess inside your head. Why the fuck had you tried to a kiss a guy you only know through your friend’s videos? You wanted to scream and kick.
You rolled onto your back, eyes closing, but the image of him, that near kiss, lingered in your mind like smoke—unwanted but impossible to shake.
Would he tell Martin? Worse, would he tell Mandy? Would she be mad that you nearly kiss Hamzah? Would you lose your job?
You glanced at the clock. It was late, and you were so tired, but the restlessness wouldn’t let you sleep. Instead, you reached for your phone again, scrolled through your messages, then stopped.
One new notification.
It was from Hamzah.
“Hey, sorry if I was too forward earlier. I was a bit high. You cool?”
You stared at the message, the screen flickering under the dim light. Was he apologizing? Or was this just his way of dismissing it, making it nothing?
Your fingers hovered above the keyboard. Was he expecting an answer? What were you supposed to say?
Finally, you typed a response, only to delete it a moment later. It was easier to just lie here in the silence, letting the unanswered questions fill the space. You weren't ready for any of this.
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