Khairul sat in his car longer than he needed to.
The engine was off, the afternoon sun filtering through the trees lining the quiet Yishun street. Dappled light moved slowly across the dashboard as a breeze stirred the leaves above. He rested one arm on the steering wheel, the other loose at his side, gaze unfocused — not because he was uncertain, but because he was precise.
Intent required clarity.
And clarity deserved respect.
He had already crossed the line from bystander to protector. That line hadn't been dramatic, despite how it might sound in hindsight. It hadn't come with declarations or raised voices from him. It had come quietly — in a canteen thick with noise, with security officers moving in, with a young man who refused to take no for an answer.
Khairul hadn't stepped back then.
He wasn't stepping back now.
But this was different.
This wasn't about intervening. This wasn't about proximity or timing or making sure she wasn't alone when she shouldn't be. This was about choosing a shape for something that had already taken form.
He exhaled slowly, once, grounding himself. Then he opened the car door and stepped out.
Hidayah was already walking toward him from the gate.
Her backpack was slung over one shoulder, hair tied back loosely, a few strands escaping near her temples. Her stride was unhurried, unforced. She looked steadier than she had months ago — shoulders looser, eyes clearer.
That steadiness mattered more to him than anything else.
"Hey," he said as she reached him.
"Hey."
They shared a brief pause — not awkward, not uncertain. It had become their rhythm. Neither of them rushed moments that deserved space.
"How was today?" he asked, reaching for the passenger door.
"Long," she said, smiling faintly. "But manageable."
He nodded. That word — manageable — meant something specific to both of them.
He closed the door gently after she settled in and walked around to his side. The car eased onto the road before he spoke again, eyes on the familiar stretch of street ahead.
"I've been thinking about something," he said.
She turned slightly toward him. "That sounds serious."
"It is," he replied calmly. "But not heavy."
That earned him a small, curious look. She waited.
"I don't want to exist in your life as an undefined variable," he said. "Not after everything."
Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag, then relaxed again.
"Your father trusted me enough to step in," he continued. "Enough to let me be part of how you get home safely. That isn't something I take lightly."
She swallowed, the motion subtle but visible.
"I'm not interested in occupying space temporarily," he said. "I want to be intentional. With you."
The word landed — firm, steady, unmistakable.
The car stopped briefly at a red light. Neither of them looked at it.
"I want to come by this weekend," he added. "Not to explain myself. Not to justify anything. Just to make it clear that I'm here properly."
Her breath left her slowly, like she'd been holding it without realising.
"I was hoping you'd want that," she admitted. "My dad already sees you as… involved."
Khairul allowed himself a small exhale. "I know. But involvement and intention aren't the same thing."
She turned fully toward him then — really looked at him.
"You don't feel like you're moving too fast?" she asked.
"No," he said immediately. "I feel like I'm moving honestly."
That mattered more than speed.
"We can do it casually," she said after a beat. "At home. Weekend."
"That's perfect," he replied without hesitation.
When the car stopped outside her block, neither of them moved right away. The engine idled softly, a familiar sound now.
"Hidayah," he said quietly.
She turned.
"I don't want to stand above you," he said. "And I don't want to stand behind you. I want to stand with you — long-term."
Her throat tightened, but she smiled.
"I know," she said.
He reached across the console — not to pull her closer, not to claim — just to rest his hand over hers.
She didn't pull away.
Saturday Morning
Weekends in the Kamari household were unhurried by design.
No alarms. No schedules shouted across rooms. Just the quiet choreography of a family that knew each other's rhythms well enough not to interrupt them.
Hidayah joined her parents at the dining table as her mother set down a plate of epok-epok, golden and crisp, beside neatly halved roti sardine. The smell filled the room — warm, slightly sweet, deeply familiar.
Her father sat with his newspaper folded open, reading glasses perched low on his nose. He glanced up when she sat, eyes flicking briefly to her face.
"You're up early for a Saturday," he noted.
"I woke up hungry," she said lightly.
Her mother snorted. "You're always hungry. Eat."
They did, the quiet punctuated by the soft crunch of pastry and the rustle of paper. It was the kind of silence that didn't demand filling.
Then Hidayah spoke.
"Khairul wants to come by later," she said. "To talk properly."
Her father didn't look surprised. He simply folded the newspaper and set it aside.
"Good," Kamari said. "It's about time."
Her mother glanced at him, then at Hidayah. "He asked?"
"Yes."
Kamari nodded once. "That's the right way."
No questions about who he was. No probing about intentions already observed through action.
"I've already seen how he handles pressure," Kamari continued calmly. "And how he steps in when it matters."
Hidayah felt something warm settle in her chest.
"He's been careful," she said. "About not crossing my boundaries."
"As he should be," her mother replied, tone firm but approving.
Kamari leaned back slightly, arms crossing loosely.
"If he's going to be part of your life," he said, "then he should be part of this house with clarity. Not ambiguity."
That was permission — given without ceremony.
That Afternoon
Khairul arrived exactly on time.
Not early. Not late.
He stood at the gate for a brief moment before ringing the bell, posture relaxed but respectful. He'd dressed simply — collared shirt, sleeves rolled, nothing that looked like effort disguised as humility. He carried a small box of pastries from a nearby bakery, held carefully, offered without flourish.
Hidayah's mother welcomed him first.
"Come in," she said warmly. "We've been expecting you."
She took the box from him, peering inside with interest. "Oh, these look good."
"I hope so," he replied. "The lady behind me in line insisted."
That earned him a small laugh.
Kamari joined them moments later, extending a firm handshake — not a test, not a challenge. Just acknowledgment.
"Sit," Kamari said. "Let's talk."
They did.
Not about Michael — that chapter was already documented, reported, addressed. There was no need to give it more weight than it deserved.
Instead, they talked about pacing. Responsibility. Boundaries.
"I'm aware I'm already involved," Khairul said evenly. "I didn't step in lightly. And I won't step out casually."
Kamari studied him for a long moment, then nodded.
"You understand that my priority is her safety," Kamari said.
"Yes," Khairul replied. "And I respect that you trusted me with it."
"And you won't overstep?"
"No," Khairul said without hesitation. "I'll align."
The silence that followed wasn't tense.
It was settled.
"You're welcome here," Kamari said finally. "As long as you remain consistent."
Khairul inclined his head. "I will."
Hidayah hadn't realised she'd been holding her breath until her shoulders loosened.
Later
When Khairul stood to leave, Hidayah walked him to the door.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
"For trusting you?," he asked.
"For being intentional."
They shared a brief smile — small, private, enough.
They didn't kiss. They didn't need to.
As he disappeared down the corridor, Hidayah leaned lightly against the doorframe, a hand resting at her side.
She didn't feel swept up.
She felt anchored.
For the first time in a long while, the ground beneath her future didn't feel fragile.
It felt chosen.