The queue outside Penang Culture curled neatly along the tiled walkway, orderly in that distinctly Singaporean way—everyone close enough to smell the food, polite enough not to complain out loud. Warm air drifted out every time the doors opened, carrying the unmistakable scent of spices, fried shallots, and something rich simmering slowly.
Hidayah stood between Jasmine and Arnold, phone tucked loosely in her hand, backpack still on her shoulders. Inside, metal trays gleamed under warm yellow lights, steam fogging the glass panels in soft bursts. A staff member wiped condensation away with practiced efficiency.
Jasmine craned her neck dramatically.
"I see char kway teow."
Arnold squinted. "You say that like it's a rare celestial dish."
"It is," Jasmine said solemnly, "when it's good."
Hidayah smiled faintly, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. The day had settled into her muscles in a pleasant way—legs tired from training, shoulders loose, mind unburdened. Not the kind of exhaustion that made her want to disappear into bed, but the kind that promised rest would actually work.
The line moved forward by two steps.
"Smells legit," Arnold said. "That's already a good sign."
"If it smells like regret tomorrow, that's on you," Jasmine replied.
A hostess called out the next number, voice bright and efficient.
"That's us," Arnold said, already stepping forward as if afraid the moment might pass him by.
They were led inside to a round table near the windows. Outside, mall lights reflected softly against the glass, streaks of white and gold blurring into one another. Plates clinked as they settled in, the hum of conversation around them steady but not overwhelming.
Jasmine barely touched her chair before standing again.
"Okay. Buffet rules," she announced, pointing dramatically between Arnold and Hidayah. "No hoarding. No judging portions. No commentary on plate composition."
Arnold snorted. "You break all three."
"I break records," Jasmine corrected.
Hidayah laughed quietly as she followed them toward the food stations. The spread was generous and comforting—nasi kandar with rich gravies, sambal prawns glowing red under the lights, beef rendang dark and glossy, stacks of roti canai puffed and golden, fried chicken crackling softly as if it knew it was the favourite.
She took her time. Rice first. Curry slow and careful, letting the ladle drip before committing. Fried chicken crisp and golden, chosen deliberately. A spoon of sambal on the side—not too much.
At the table, plates were set down with satisfied sighs.
Jasmine took one bite and closed her eyes dramatically.
"Oh. This is dangerous."
Arnold nodded, chewing thoughtfully. "I hate that you're right."
Hidayah tasted hers. Warmth bloomed through her chest—not just from spice, but familiarity. This was food that didn't demand interpretation. It simply was.
Halfway through the meal, her phone vibrated softly against her palm.
She glanced down.
Khairul: Just reached. You inside?
Her gaze lifted instinctively toward the entrance.
"Is he coming?" Jasmine asked, already smiling.
Hidayah nodded. "He's here."
Moments later, Khairul stepped inside, pausing briefly to scan the room. Tonight he was dressed simply—dark slacks, fitted T-shirt, running shoes. Relaxed, but still unmistakably composed, as if stillness was something he wore naturally.
His eyes found her immediately.
Hidayah lifted her hand slightly.
He smiled—small, genuine—and walked over.
"You came at the correct time," Jasmine said brightly. "Second round."
Arnold pulled out a chair with exaggerated courtesy.
"Welcome. You missed the first wave of regret."
"Thanks," Khairul said, amused. His gaze flicked briefly to Hidayah. "You ate?"
"Yes."
"Good."
He headed for the buffet, returning with a modest plate—char kway teow, prawn mee, roti canai folded neatly like he respected it.
Jasmine leaned toward Arnold, whispering loudly,
"He has restraint."
Arnold replied just as loudly,
"I don't trust people like that."
Khairul paused mid-bite. "That's fair."
Dinner stretched comfortably after that.
Conversation wandered the way it always did when people felt safe—Jasmine's dramatic retelling of a choir mishap involving the wrong key and a very offended conductor, Arnold attempting to defend himself poorly, Khairul listening with quiet amusement.
"You fell asleep," Jasmine insisted.
"I was resting my eyes."
"You snored."
"That's slander."
Khairul tilted his head. "Did you snore?"
Arnold glared. "You just got here."
Hidayah watched them with fond amusement, chin propped in her hand, laughter slipping out before she could stop it. Khairul leaned slightly closer.
"They're like this all the time?" he murmured.
"Yes."
"I see."
There was warmth in his voice. Acceptance, uncomplicated.
Dessert followed—cendol piled high, shaved ice melting fast under the lights.
"This is necessary," Jasmine declared.
Arnold agreed too quickly.
When they finally stepped back into the mall corridor, the crowd had thinned. Evening shoppers drifted past, laughter echoing softly between storefronts.
Khairul reached for Hidayah's laptop backpack without a word.
"I'll carry it."
She slid it off easily. "Thank you."
He adjusted the strap. "It's heavy."
"It's her entire life," Jasmine said solemnly.
They wandered—past clothing stores, past a bookstore Hidayah lingered in, fingers brushing spines without urgency. Khairul stayed close, matching her pace. Occasionally, their arms brushed—unremarkable, unforced.
Arnold and Jasmine walked a few steps ahead, voices low, teasing constant.
"They're flirting," Khairul murmured.
"They don't hide it."
"Bold."
Hidayah smiled.
When they stepped outside, night air cooled her skin, the mall lights glowing behind them. Khairul shifted the backpack again.
"I'll walk you to your dad's car."
"Okay."
Jasmine looped her arm through Arnold's.
"We'll pretend to give you privacy."
"You won't," Arnold said flatly.
She grinned. "No."
Hidayah felt light—full stomach, steady heart, laughter still echoing faintly in her ears.
Tonight asked for nothing more.
And she was happy to give it exactly that.