Hidayah was still standing near the library entrance when she felt it shift.
Not the space.
Not the noise.
The weight of the air around her.
Khairul didn't call out to her.
He didn't rush.
He simply appeared beside her—a solid presence, unmistakable even before she turned her head.
"Hidayah."
That was all he said.
She looked up.
The moment their eyes met, the tightness in her chest cracked open. Relief flooded through her so fast it made her knees feel weak.
Before she could speak, Khairul reached for her training bag.
Not asking.
Not hesitating.
He slung it over his own shoulder with practised ease, then took her laptop bag as well, securing both straps without fumbling.
Only then did he take her hand.
Firm. Warm. Certain.
"We're leaving," he said quietly.
She didn't argue.
She let herself be guided past the security gates, past the study tables, past the glass doors that slid open with a soft hiss. The library lights fell away behind them, replaced by the darker open space of the campus night.
Khairul didn't look back. His grip never loosened.
Students passed them—laughing, distracted, unaware—but no one stepped into their path. Something about Khairul's posture discouraged it. Shoulders squared. Awareness wide. Calm sharpened into readiness.
They crossed the open walkway toward the car park.
Only when they reached his car did Khairul stop.
He opened the door for her, waited until she was seated, then placed her bags securely in the back before sliding into the driver's seat himself.
The doors locked with a decisive click.
Silence filled the car.
Not awkward.
Protective.
Hidayah exhaled heavily for the first time since leaving the library.
Khairul started the engine and pulled out smoothly, merging onto the road leading off campus.
They didn't speak immediately.
The streetlights streaked past the windscreen.
Only after they were well clear of Republic Polytechnic did Khairul break the silence.
"Did he contact you after you left the library?"
"No," Hidayah said. "He messaged me once before I called you. I didn't reply."
She hesitated, then added, "I didn't give him my number."
Khairul's jaw tightened—not in anger, but in focus.
"Do you want to make a police report?"
The question was calm. Neutral. Offered, not imposed.
Hidayah didn't need time to think.
"Yes."
He nodded once. "Okay."
Without another word, Khairul adjusted the route.
The police station lights were bright against the night sky.
Khairul parked, turned off the engine, and looked at her.
"I'll be with you the whole time," he said. "You decide what you're comfortable sharing."
She nodded.
Inside, the air smelt faintly of stale air and paperwork. The officer at the desk listened carefully as Hidayah explained—measured, factual, steady. Khairul stood beside her the entire time, a quiet presence that anchored her whenever her voice threatened to waver.
She explained the repeated encounters.
The timing.
The message.
The number she never gave.
The officer took notes, asked clarifying questions, and reassured her that the report would be logged and that she'd done the right thing by coming in early.
When it was over, Hidayah felt lighter than she expected.
Not because the situation was resolved. But because it was real now.
Documented.
Acknowledged.
Outside, the night felt cooler.
Khairul opened the car door for her again. As he drove her home, he spoke softly, deliberately.
"For now," he said, "you don't engage. No replies. No explanations. If anything else happens, you call me first."
She nodded. "I will."
When they reached her block, Khairul parked but didn't turn off the engine immediately.
He looked at her then—not as an officer, not as someone assessing a situation—but simply as Khairul.
"You did nothing wrong," he whispered. Soft but heard
Her throat tightened.
"I know," she replied. And for the first time, she truly believed it.
She stepped out of the car, paused, then leaned back in slightly.
"Thank you," she said again. "For not asking questions first."
Khairul's gaze softened just a fraction.
"There are times for answers," he said. "Tonight wasn't one of them."
She closed the door gently.
As she walked toward her block, she felt something settle inside her.
The pattern had tried to close in.
But someone else had stepped into it.
Quietly.
Decisively.
And this time—
She wasn't walking away alone.