The smell of fried chicken drifted through the house before Hidayah even reached the kitchen.
It wasn't just the smell — it was the timing of it. Late enough in the morning that breakfast had blurred into lunch, early enough that the day still felt unclaimed. The scent carried warmth and oil and familiarity, wrapping around her as she rounded the corner.
She slowed without meaning to.
The rice cooker clicked softly, a sound she'd heard all her life, steam curling upward as her mother lifted the lid to fluff the grains. Sambal sat cooling at the side, its colour deep and unmistakable, oil separating slightly at the edges.
Her father was already seated at the table, newspaper folded neatly beside his plate. He looked up when she entered, eyes flicking over her face with the ease of long habit.
"Morning."
"Morning," she replied, reaching for a glass.
Her mother set a plate in front of her — golden fried chicken, rice pressed neatly to one side, cucumber slices laid out with quiet care, a spoonful of sambal tucked beside it.
"Eat first," her mother said. "You're going to have a long day."
Hidayah smiled faintly. "You always say that."
"And I'm usually right."
She sat, fingers resting lightly against the table before she picked up her spoon. The surface was cool under her skin. Solid. Real.
The normalcy pressed in around her — quiet, steady, unchanged. It should have soothed her completely. This was the place where her body should have known how to relax without instruction.
Instead, there was a thin thread of alertness running beneath it, humming low and constant.
Her father took a sip of his coffee, eyes still on the paper. "You sleeping well?"
"Yes," she said automatically, then corrected herself. "Mostly."
He nodded, accepting the half-truth for what it was. He didn't look up again, but she felt the acknowledgment — not dismissal, not interrogation. Just note taken.
Second year. Final semester.
He didn't need to say it aloud for it to sit between them. This was the stretch where everything tightened — deadlines, expectations, futures. Where small things felt heavier because there was less room to recover from mistakes.
Her mother watched her for a moment longer than usual, gaze flicking to the way Hidayah's shoulders sat, the slight pause before each bite.
"Don't rush yourself," her mother said gently. "Finish properly. That's all that matters."
"I will."
No warnings. No instructions. No tension layered beneath the words.
Just trust.
That, more than anything, made Hidayah swallow.
When she stood to clear her plate, her father folded his paper and reached for his keys.
"I'll fetch you and Jasmine later."
"Okay."
It wasn't new. Just reaffirmed. A quiet reminder that she didn't need to plan contingencies alone.
She grabbed her bag, slipped on her shoes, and stepped out into the morning air.
Michael woke already irritated.
The ceiling fan hummed above him, each rotation scraping against his nerves. He'd barely slept. Every time he closed his eyes, images slid together without order — Hidayah laughing, Hidayah walking away, Hidayah standing beside someone else.
He sat up abruptly, heart pounding as if he'd been running.
Final year.
New semester.
A fresh start, they said.
He scoffed quietly, dragging a hand through his hair. The phrase felt like an insult. As if proximity to time could erase what had already happened.
Nothing about this felt fresh.
His rugby gear still hung unused in the corner of his room. Jersey folded too neatly. Boots cleaned and untouched. He hadn't moved them since the letter arrived.
Removed from the team due to conduct inconsistent with school values.
Conduct.
As if everything he'd done, everything that had happened, could be flattened into a single word and filed away.
He dressed without thinking, movements sharp, impatient. On campus, faces passed him by without recognition. New classmates. New names. New lecturers who knew nothing about him.
That anonymity should have been freeing.
Instead, it made him restless. Untethered.
Then he spotted her near one of the main walkways.
Hidayah.
Her hair was tied back, posture straight, steps unhurried. She didn't scan the area the way she used to. Didn't fidget. Didn't hesitate before choosing her path.
She walked like someone who belonged fully to her own space.
Michael slowed.
She learned that from me, he thought, the idea twisting strangely in his chest. I shaped her.
The thought comforted and angered him in equal measure. Pride curdled with resentment.
She didn't look his way.
Not once.
Khairul noticed the shift in himself before the day had properly begun.
He'd checked his phone three times before mid-morning — not because he expected a message, but because he wanted to be ready for one. As if readiness itself was a form of responsibility.
He recognised the feeling. It wasn't anxiety.
It was awareness.
During a break, he paused near the window, watching the street below. Traffic flowed steadily. Buses pulled in and out. People crossed without urgency. Everything moved the way it was supposed to.
His thoughts didn't.
He thought about Hidayah's quieter replies lately. About the way she filtered her words, choosing accuracy over reassurance. About the way she trusted him enough to say later instead of nothing.
It struck him then — not gradually, but with sudden clarity — that he didn't want to be an addition to her life.
He wanted to be part of its structure.
Not loud. Not intrusive.
Permanent.
The word settled in his chest, heavy but unmistakably right.
He pulled out his phone.
Khairul:
I'm around later if you need me. No pressure.
He didn't overthink it. Didn't add anything else.
The reply came after a few minutes.
Hidayah:
Thank you.
Simple. Honest.
Enough.
Hidayah felt the unease again just before noon.
It wasn't dramatic. No footsteps too close. No voice calling her name. No obvious trigger she could point to later.
Just that familiar tightening beneath her ribs, like a muscle bracing before impact.
She adjusted her bag strap and moved closer to a group of students, pretending to check her phone. The glass of a nearby building reflected her back at her — calm face, neutral expression, eyes steady.
Inside, she catalogued details automatically.
Who was near.
Where the exits were.
How crowded the space felt.
How fast she could leave if she needed to.
Her second life had sharpened these instincts. She trusted them, but she also trusted her ability not to let them spiral.
Her phone vibrated.
Khairul: How's your day holding up?
She hesitated, thumb hovering.
Then typed—
Hidayah: Okay. Just feeling a bit off.
The reply came almost immediately.
Khairul: Then trust that feeling. I'll see you later.
Her shoulders loosened slightly. Not because the feeling vanished — but because it had been acknowledged without being questioned.
Michael watched her from across the open area, pulse quickening.
She was closer than before. Close enough that he could see the slight furrow between her brows as she looked at her phone. Close enough to imagine what her screen might show.
Who is she talking to?
The question burned, sharp and possessive.
He took a step forward, then stopped.
Not here. Not yet.
Every instinct in him screamed to insert himself — to reclaim attention, to force acknowledgment, to disrupt whatever fragile equilibrium she'd built.
He swallowed it down, jaw tight.
She used to tell me everything.
The memory surfaced uninvited, both weapon and wound.
By late afternoon, Khairul's resolve had settled into something firm.
He stood near his car, posture relaxed but alert, scanning the area without making it obvious. He wasn't searching for threats. He was watching for her.
When he saw Hidayah approaching — the way her steps slowed slightly when she spotted him, the micro-adjustment of her path — something eased inside his chest.
"You alright?" he asked quietly.
She nodded. "Yeah. Just… a long day."
He accepted that. They walked side by side for a few steps before he spoke again.
"I've been thinking," he said, choosing his words carefully. "About us."
She glanced at him, attentive but not tense.
"I don't want to be someone who just… shows up," he continued. "I want to be someone you can rely on. Long-term."
She stopped walking.
He turned fully toward her, voice steady. "Not because you need protection. Because you deserve consistency."
Her breath caught, shallow and quick before she could control it.
"I'm not looking for something temporary either," she said softly.
Khairul nodded once, the decision settling fully now. "Then we're on the same page."
Michael lay awake again that night.
The ceiling felt too close. The silence too loud.
He replayed the image of her standing beside Khairul — calm, composed, unreachable — until it burned itself into his mind.
She thinks she's moved on.
His fingers curled into the sheets, knuckles whitening.
She thinks this is over.
A slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Not warm. Not kind.
It wasn't.
Not yet.