Syarah stared at the timetable.

Gaps. Everywhere.

“…week of courses,” she sighed.

“Of all weeks.”

She glanced at Megat’s photo on the wall.

Still smiling.

“…sir,” she muttered,

“…you’re really leaving me with this?”

Knock. Knock.

“Come in,” Syarah said.

The door opened.

Nazha stepped in—blue kebarung, off-white hijab, glasses catching the light.

Her expression was… not pleased.

“Ma’am,” she said,

“…why do I have three reliefs a day?”

“Thursday’s the worst. It links straight to my 2 Amanah class.”

Syarah laughed.

“You only have twelve teaching hours,” she said. “The rest—reliefs.”

Nazha puffed her cheeks, arms crossing instantly.

“Consider it resilience training,” Syarah added, grinning as she patted her shoulder.

Syarah smiled slightly.

“By the way… those connected reliefs?” she said.

“They can be useful—if you design them right.”

Nazha glanced back.

“SGM 2.0 isn’t just for planned lessons,” Syarah added.

“Sometimes the real ones happen in between.”

The Bilik Sahsiah felt wider this week.

Quieter.

Even Faizal was away attending a course for English Head Panels at the Sabah State Education Department.

Nazha pulled out her phone.

A quick WhatsApp video call.

 He picked up.

Just in time—on break.

Faizal leaned into the call, playful.

“Oh, hey, Nazha. What’s with the long face?”

Nazha didn’t soften.

“Sir, I have two hours of English class. What am I supposed to do with my lesson plan?”

Faizal paused for a moment.

Then nodded slightly.

“Follow the original period,” he said.
“Since your relief links back to your class, you actually have space to optimise English Language Teaching.”

A faint smile.

“More time… means more room to be creative.”

Nazha let out a small laugh.

“…oh, that was so me,” she said.

Faizal: “Oh?”

Nazha paused.

The smile faded slightly.

That wasn’t Nazha speaking.

That was Izhan slipping through.

Nazha smirked.

“I proposed something,” she said, “a MasterChef-style activity… food reviewing to test their speaking and writing skills.”

Faizal blinked once.

“…MasterChef?”

Nazha gave a thumbs-up at the camera.

“Trust me, sir.”

Call ended.

Back at 2 Amanah, Nathan was flipping through the Kanshin Inferno recipe list.

“Moon Pie… Butter Crab… Grilled Unagi Fillet,” he muttered. “Man, I must try them all.”

Naufal, seated beside him, glanced over.

“…you’re reading that like it’s a mission briefing.”

“Something I love to do… and for my family.” Nathan’s voice softened. Then he looked away.

Naufal didn’t press further. He just nodded once—quiet understanding.

A few seconds later, the door opened.

Nazha stepped in.

“Good afternoon, teacher,” the class greeted.

“Thank you, class. I have an interesting plan for us this Thursday.”

Nazha placed a stack of worksheets on the table.

“But first,” she continued, “let’s do this exercise. It’ll be useful for our main task later.”

An hour passed, and they went through their answers together as a class.

The exercise wasn’t random—it was preparation for a guided writing task: a food review.

Nazha capped her marker.

Then turned back to the board.

She wrote in bold:

MASTERCHEF — THIS THURSDAY

A small pause settled across the class.

Nathan spotted a smile. Hasya, Iffah, and Naufal saw that quick change.

Nazha clapped her hands lightly.

“Alright,” she said, snapping them back.

“This Thursday, you’re not just writing a food review.”

She tapped the board once.

“You’re going to experience it first.”

“And then you’re going to describe it like real critics—clear, structured, and convincing.”

Nathan jumped joyfully. 

Hasya whispered to Iffah, 

“He is a true foodie.”

Iffah nodded without hesitation.

“…no doubt.”

Nazha chuckled lightly as she watched Nathan’s reaction.

She turned back to the class and began listing the rules.

“Form groups of four.”
“The recipe is up to you.”

A marker tap on the board.

“We have two days to prepare for this activity. I will get permission from Cikgu Rahimah for the SRT kitchen block since I’ll be relieving her class this Thursday.”

At that last line—

Nathan straightened immediately.

His eyes lit up.

“…SRT kitchen?” he muttered, almost under his breath.

Naufal glanced at him.

Hasya already noticed the shift.

Iffah looked on.

Nathan leaned slightly forward.

“Teacher… we’re actually cooking there?”

Nazha paused for a beat.

Then smiled faintly.

“…yes.”

That was all it took.

Nathan sat back—but didn’t calm down.

Nathan glanced at Naufal, then at Hasya and Iffah.

Hasya sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“…oh, the coconut mission reunion.”

Iffah tilted her head slightly.

“That mission really revealed our dynamics, huh?”

Nazha’s gaze lingered on them a moment longer.

Hasya’s remark.
Iffah’s quiet observation.
Nathan’s subtle shift in awareness.

She didn’t interrupt.

Just observed.

Then, almost to herself—

“…that was the moment they developed.”

A faint pause.

Her eyes softened slightly.

Not as a teacher marking progress.

But as someone recognising it happening in real time.

The school bell rang at 1340.

Students poured out in waves—noise spilling through corridors, shoes rushing downstairs, voices overlapping with after-school relief.

For 2 Amanah, there was no lingering.

No unnecessary delay.

“Grocery run,” Hasya announced immediately, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

Naufal was already stretching his arms.

Nathan just nodded once.

Iffah checked the list on her phone.

“…we don’t have much time before peak hour,” she said.

They didn’t even go home first.

Straight out of the school gate.

Straight into the nearest supermarket.

The supermarket aisle was louder than expected.

Trolleys squeaked past.

Plastic bags rustled.

Someone laughed near the frozen section.

Nathan stood slightly behind the group.

Basket in hand.

Eyes scanning—not randomly, but selectively.

Hasya was already complaining.

“This is basically survival mode. Why is everything so expensive?”

Iffah quietly compared two sauces without speaking.

Naufal pushed the trolley, relaxed.

Then Nathan stopped.

It wasn’t dramatic.

Just… a pause.

His hand hovered near a packet of dried anchovies.

Hasya noticed first.

“…you look like you’re choosing a life decision, not ikan bilis.”

Nathan didn’t answer immediately.

He picked it up.

Turned it slightly.

Checked the label.

Then quietly:

“Not this one.”

He put it back.

Iffah tilted her head.

“…different brand matters?”

Nathan nodded once.

“Texture changes the whole taste.”

But he said it as if it were obvious from experience, not theory.

Naufal glanced at him.

Just watched.

Hasya squinted.

“…you talk like you’ve done this a lot.”

Nathan gave a small shrug.

“Yeah.”

Then added, softer:

“…at home.”

Silence, brief but noticeable.

He moved forward again.

Picked another item—rice this time.

Ran his fingers lightly along the packaging.

“…this one cooks faster,” he said.

Almost to himself.

Iffah finally spoke.

“Convenience?”

Nathan shook his head.

“Timing.”

That word lingered a second longer than it should’ve.

Hasya frowned slightly.

“…timing for what?”

Nathan paused.

The basket lowered a little.

For the first time, his voice wasn’t quick.

“…for when someone gets home late.”

Naufal exhaled quietly.

Not surprised.

Just confirming something he already knew.

Hasya didn’t joke this time.

Her usual sarcasm didn’t come out immediately.

Instead:

“…oh.”

Just that.

Nathan blinked, then realised what he had said.

He waved it off slightly.

“It’s nothing.”

But his tone didn’t fully match his words.

Iffah looked at the shelf again.

Then softly:

“…so you cook while waiting.”

Nathan didn’t correct her.

He just placed the rice into the basket.

From behind, Naufal finally stepped in lightly.

“He’s always been like that.”

Simple.

No drama.

Hasya looked between them.

“…you knew?”

Naufal nodded.

“Yeah.”

“Some people cook because they like it.”

He glanced at Nathan.

“Some people cook because it’s how they take care of things.”

Nathan didn’t respond.

Just kept walking.

But this time—

Hasya didn’t tease.

Iffah didn’t analyse out loud.

Even the trolley felt quieter.

Later, at the checkout line, Hasya muttered:

“…I thought he was just a foodie.”

Iffah replied softly:

“He is.”

A beat.

“…just not only that.”

Nathan, ahead of them, was already calculating ingredients again.

Not loudly.

Not proudly.

Just naturally.

And for the first time—

They weren’t watching a “foodie.”

They were watching someone who had learned how to care through food.

Naufal watched him a moment longer.

Then said quietly:

“…you always think about others first, don’t you?”

Nathan paused.

Just for a second.

“…it’s just easier that way.”

Then kept walking.

Meanwhile, back at SM Putra, Nazha stepped into Syarah’s office with unusual energy.

Syarah lowered her glasses slightly.

“…you were disappointed this morning,” she said, “and now you’re back smiling like that.”

Nazha grinned.

“I am.”

She placed her hands lightly on the desk.

“I want to invite you as a judge for my extended class this Thursday.”

A brief silence followed as Syarah studied her over the rim of her glasses.

“…extended class,” she repeated.

Faizal already knew about it through Nazha’s voice note.

“Syarah has to eat this Thursday, while Megat and I stick with the course at JPNS? 😭”

He stared at the message for a second.

Then exhaled through his nose.

“…so this is how I find out I’m missing food judging duty.”

Before he could put the phone down—

Megat leaned slightly over.

“…what did she do now?”

Faizal tilted the screen toward him without a word.

Megat read it once.

Then again.

A slow smile formed.

“…extended class with food judging,” Megat said softly.

He glanced at Faizal.

“…you got replaced by Syarah.”

Faizal groaned.

“…don’t start.”

Megat chuckled under his breath.

“…Nazha is evolving her teaching method faster than our course content.”

A pause.

Then, lightly:

“…and you’re stuck here learning KPIs.”

Faizal shot him a look.

“…you’re enjoying this too much.”

Megat straightened his posture, still smiling faintly.

“I’m just observing patterns.”

He tapped Faizal’s shoulder once.

“…like you're suffering.”

Faizal leaned back in his chair.

“…I hate both of you.”

Back at home, Nathan stood in the kitchen, the familiar rhythm of cooking settling into his hands.

Dry-braised salted fish simmered quietly on the stove—careful heat, controlled timing. His reference wasn’t random; it came from the Kanshin Inferno recipe guide.

He adjusted the fire slightly, watching the sauce thicken.

A small smile formed.

For once, it wasn’t just about cooking.

It was about being understood.

Nazha’s voice from earlier lingered in his mind—the MasterChef task, the freedom to choose, the space to apply what he already liked doing.

Not forced. Not abstract.

Relevant.

Nathan exhaled softly.

“…so this is what she meant,” he muttered.

He tasted the sauce, nodded to himself, then reached for his phone.

Without much hesitation, he forwarded a few selected recipes from the guide into his cooking WhatsApp group.

One message.

Then another.

Then a third.

No explanation

Just sharing.

He pressed send.

And in another place, someone was already noticing patterns.