The café was busy enough to be anonymous.
That was why Khairul chose it.
Mid-afternoon crowds carried a specific kind of noise — not the rush of morning caffeine or the fatigue of evening, but something looser. People lingering over half-finished drinks. Students pretending to study. Office workers stealing extra minutes before returning to fluorescent lights. Retirees who had nowhere else to be.
No one watched anyone else for long.
That anonymity mattered.
This wasn't a confrontation.
It wasn't even a meeting in the way people imagined such things.
It was alignment.
Khairul arrived ten minutes early and chose a corner table with a clear view of the entrance, back to the wall, line of sight unobstructed. Habit, not paranoia. He ordered black coffee and let it cool untouched, hands resting loosely on the table, posture relaxed but attentive.
When Kamari entered, Khairul noticed immediately — not because Kamari announced himself, but because men like him didn't disappear into rooms.
No rush.
No scanning.
No performance.
Kamari carried himself the way men did when they had nothing to hide and no need to prove authority. He moved through the café as if it would adjust around him — and it did, subtly. Chairs shifted. A barista glanced up and nodded without knowing why.
Khairul stood as he approached.
"Uncle Kamari."
Kamari nodded once. "Khairul. Sit."
They did.
For a few seconds, neither spoke.
The café filled the space instead — the clink of ceramic against saucer, the hiss of the milk steamer, a burst of laughter from a nearby table. Life continuing, indifferent to the quiet calculus being worked out between them.
Kamari was the one who broke the silence.
"She lodged the follow-up report today."
"Yes," Khairul replied without hesitation. "She informed me immediately."
"That's good," Kamari said. "She's handling it properly."
Khairul nodded. "She is."
There was no pride in his voice.
Just certainty.
Kamari stirred his coffee slowly, spoon circling with deliberate calm. "Tell me what you see."
Khairul took a breath — not because he was unsure, but because precision mattered here. Words shaped response. Response shaped outcome.
"Michael is no longer acting impulsively," he said. "He's testing proximity. Normalising his presence. Creating encounters that look incidental, benign."
Kamari's jaw tightened, just slightly.
"So escalation without exposure."
"Yes," Khairul confirmed. "He's trying to provoke reaction without crossing lines that trigger immediate consequences."
"And Hidayah?"
"She's alert," Khairul said. "Not afraid. But aware. She's managing well — documenting, disengaging, escalating appropriately. But prolonged vigilance wears people down."
Kamari looked at him then.
Really looked.
"You're worried."
Khairul didn't deny it. He corrected it.
"I'm prepared," he said evenly. "Worry clouds judgment. I don't allow that."
Something flickered in Kamari's expression — not amusement, but recognition.
"You speak like someone who's been trained to think ahead."
Khairul met his gaze steadily. "I was."
Another pause settled between them, heavier than the first but no less controlled.
Kamari leaned back slightly, studying him with new clarity. "I appreciate that you didn't wait for things to get worse before asking to speak."
"I wouldn't," Khairul replied. "This isn't a situation you react late to."
Kamari nodded once. "Good. Then we're on the same page."
He took a sip of his coffee before continuing.
"I'll continue fetching her after school. No exceptions. Jasmine stays with her. Routes stay predictable."
Khairul listened carefully, committing each decision to memory.
"We don't isolate her," Kamari added. "But we don't make her feel caged either."
"That balance matters," Khairul said. "Predictability without confinement."
Kamari glanced at him, approving.
"If I'm unavailable," Kamari continued, "you step in. She already knows that."
"Yes," Khairul replied. "And she informs me of any deviation."
Kamari's gaze sharpened.
"You don't make decisions for her."
"No," Khairul said immediately. "I support the decisions she makes."
That distinction landed.
Kamari exhaled slowly, shoulders easing for the first time since he'd arrived.
"You know," he said, "when I first met you, I was assessing whether you were just… present because you liked her."
Khairul didn't interrupt. He knew better than to rush moments like this.
"Now," Kamari continued, "I see that you're present because you're willing to carry weight."
Something settled in Khairul's chest.
Not triumph.
Responsibility.
"I don't see myself as temporary in her life," Khairul said carefully. "But I won't force a label she isn't ready for. My role is to be stable. Predictable. Someone she doesn't have to worry about."
Kamari studied him for a long moment — not as a father protecting territory, but as a man measuring another man's spine.
Then he nodded once.
"That's all I expect."
They sat in silence again.
But this time, it wasn't cautious.
It wasn't evaluative.
It was aligned.
When Kamari stood to leave, he paused.
"If anything shifts," he said, "you tell me. Immediately."
"Yes, Uncle."
"And Khairul?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you — for not making this about ego."
Khairul inclined his head slightly. "There's nothing to prove."
Kamari left the café without looking back.
Khairul remained seated for a while longer, watching the room return fully to its ordinary rhythm — cups cleared, new patrons arriving, the low hum of lives continuing uninterrupted.
For the first time in days, the perimeter felt solid.
Not because the threat was gone.
But because the ground beneath it had been reinforced.
Quietly.
Deliberately.
Together.