Cars packed the front of Medan Selera Kita. No space left to park. Inside, every table and chair was taken. Forks and spoons clinked between bursts of laughter.
“Looks like we won’t be able to get coverage, as Dr. Syarifah hasn’t been seen since the emergency meeting earlier,” a reporter said on the television, gripping her microphone in front of the Intelligent Zingforce Malaysia building.
“Alright, moving on to the next news,” the anchor continued.
“The US government is urging Malaysia to open access for foreign students to study Zing here. However, the Yang di-Pertuan Agong and the Prime Minister have firmly rejected—”
The TV voice dissolved into the café’s noise. Steam from rice, the sharp sting of chili, the richness of coconut milk, and the warmth of ginger and lemongrass swirled through the air, while the air conditioning brushed against the customers’ skin.
“One ayam masak lemak cili padi. Make it spicy, I’m warning you,” a Negeri Sembilan voice rang out, its accent adding flavor to the order itself.
“Got it, boss!” Rash moved toward the counter.
“Eh, Rash. Which table this one going?” James called out, his Sarawak accent slipping through as he balanced a tray.
“Table four,” Rash replied without looking. James nodded and moved. Rash clipped the order onto the line behind the counter for the kitchen.
One, the owner of Medan Selera Kita and Khai’s longtime friend, sat casually at the counter. A tall Chinese man with half-lidded eyes that always looked sleepy—until money was involved. He was the one who gave Khai a chance when no one else did.
“Walao, damn packed today,” he said, grinning.
“Viral power, bro. Share some lah,” Rash rubbed his fingers together, the universal sign for money. They laughed.
“Ask your boss,” One shot back from the counter.
“Oi, do your work. So many customers,” a tall Indian man reminded Rash.
Mesh tapped Rash’s shoulder and handed him a tray of curry chicken. They both walked off, leaving One basking in the cool air.
Ckrakk.
The door beside the counter opened.
Khai stepped out, his tired eyes scanning the crowded café. A small smile formed on his face—different from his usual one. Softer. Warmer. One noticed immediately.
“You smiling today, ustaz Khai,” One teased.
Khai flinched, then looked at him, offering a handshake. His other hand brushed his hair, slightly embarrassed. One laughed, catching the attempt to hide it.
“Boss gotta look happy, ma. This place also your effort.” One slapped his shoulder and pulled him into a quick hug. Khai returned it, gripping his shoulders despite the size difference.
“Drinks are free today for anyone dining in. My treat!” Khai shouted.
Cheers erupted.
Mesh, James, and Rash shot him sharp looks—more work—but they were smiling anyway.
Khai mouthed one word: bonus.
Rash yelled. One responded with a grin. Khai laughed, locking One in a playful headlock. One struggled, laughing harder.
This was it.
The life Khai wanted.
No heavy burden.
Just laughter. Just people.
Then—
A soft voice slipped into his ear.
Playful.
Familiar.
Dangerous.
“Muhammad Khairul Hofiy bin Kamaluddin.”
The world paused.
The café’s noise collapsed into silence. Cups stopped clinking. Laughter vanished into the heat.
Khai froze.
One name.
One glance.
One moment that tore open five years he had tried to bury.
Mary.
Five years, and she hadn’t changed.
Not really.
The loose strand of black hair. The red flannel that framed her boldness. Those sharp eyes—still searching, still knowing, still holding something only the two of them understood.
The same.
But stronger.
Sharper.
Further away.
Beside her stood Dr. Syarifah, composed in her modern hijab, watching quietly—present, grounded, giving space without ever disappearing.
“Took you long enough to show up, budak agama,” Mary said, her Sabah accent thick, teasing, alive.
Budak agama.
She still called him that.
Khairul.
The old him.
His heart slammed.
Five years dissolved like they were nothing.
No explanation.
No closure.
Just a smile from her—and everything came back.
His chest tightened. His steps felt heavy.
The crescent moon pendant on her chest caught his eye.
The one he gave her.
Still there.
Five years gone.
Still there.
Mary shook her head, covering her chest playfully. “Don’t look there. Still naughty, huh?”
Khai stared.
His tired eyes didn’t hold anger.
They burned with something else.
Something he had buried.
“I’m not—”
His voice caught.
Five years of imagined conversations.
Gone.
One clap on his shoulder from One snapped the world slightly back.
But not fully.
Because for Khai—
Only Mary existed in that space.
Her soft laugh threaded through his heartbeat, tightening his chest until it almost hurt.
“Wait… you two know each other?” Syarifah cut in, pointing between them.
“Salute, Dr. Syarifah!”
Boots hit the café floor.
Syarifah startled. James and Mesh stood straight, saluting. One followed instinctively.
She raised a hand quickly.
“No need. We’re not on duty.” Her voice was calm, controlled. Her eyes swept the room. No attention.
“Yeah lah, not like people here recognize us,” Mesh chuckled, lowering his hand.
“I do. Squad 9.”
Syarifah adjusted her glasses.
Silence.
Mesh’s eyes widened.
She didn’t miss.
“Ramesh a/l Thanilarasu. Tanker. Specialist in Zingforce equipment and vehicle repair. Your head… full of blueprints.”
Mesh scratched the back of his head. Half embarrassed. Half proud.
“Lim Zhen Quan. Sniper. Precision shooter. Near impossible to miss.”
One smiled. Small. Knowing.
“And you. James Lutok. Assaulter. Took down a pelesit twice your size… with just a parang.”
Her gaze didn’t leave him.
“Definitely Iban blood.”
James frowned slightly. Being studied like that by the head of intel wasn’t normal.
Khai watched.
Surrounded by capable people.
People who could change battles.
But now—
Dr. Syarifah stood in his café.
And worse—
Mary.
Right beside her.
Too close.
The same scent she always wore.
That small detail.
Unchanged.
I can’t let her get close.
I have to protect her… even if it means killing this feeling myself.
If I let my heart lead, I’ll ruin everything.
“I’m honored to have the head of national intel dine here.” Khai dipped his head slightly. Formal. Safe. Distant.
“Actually, she’s the one who insisted,” Syarifah pointed at Mary.
“Of course.” Mary smiled.
Not just a smile.
“I miss my husband’s cooking.”
“…Husband?!”
Khai’s heart skipped.
Mary…
You did that on purpose, didn’t you?
“Husband? You got married, Khai?” Rash rushed in.
“Mary…” Khai’s voice dropped.
She shrugged lightly.
That smile again.
Sweet on the outside.
Sharp underneath.
Five years.
No contact.
No explanation.
I was the one who left.
I chose to disappear.
And now I’m the one afraid.
Afraid she’s joking.
Afraid she’s serious.
Afraid she’s still waiting.
Why didn’t you just forget me?
I’m nothing.
You could have someone better.
Safer.
Normal.
Not someone living in shadows.
Mary glanced at him.
She knew.
She always knew when he was looking.
Her smile softened for just a second.
Then it returned.
“Might as well get two nasi kuning.”
Nasi kuning.
His chest tightened.
A roadside stall.
Endless rain.
Mary forcing him to try a new recipe.
“You’re bad at selling. Smile a bit lah.”
She laughed, hitting his shoulder.
He wasn’t good at business.
He just followed.
“And two iced waters.”
Khai snapped back.
“Rash. Two nasi kuning.”
He wanted out.
“Don’t want.”
He turned.
Mary puffed her cheeks slightly.
“Scared to cook for someone from your past?”
I’m not afraid to cook.
I’m afraid of what it brings back.
“I want you to cook it.”
“If I cook, it’s expensive.”
She leaned forward.
“Then set the price. I’ll pay. I can even buy you too.”
Mesh nearly choked.
Khai clenched his jaw.
Still the same.
Still throwing me off.
“Mary, don’t play.”
“Do I look like I’m playing?”
Her voice softened.
Too soft.
Just for a second.
Then she leaned back again like nothing happened.
Her card lifted slightly.
“I’ll pay anything. As long as you make it.”
Why me?
After five years?
“Sit.”
One word.
Short.
He lost.
Mary smiled.
A small victory she didn’t celebrate.
Syarifah watched.
“You okay forcing him like that?”
Mary held her pendant.
“Don’t worry. That’s just his face.”
True.
That was his face.
Serious. Tired. Like a man who never slept enough.
But Mary knew.
He learned cooking because of her.
He stood by the stove for hours because she said she wanted to try.
Mary lowered her gaze.
Nasi kuning.
First dish.
First attempt.
First profit.
“I’m scared it won’t taste good,” he said back then.
“I’ll taste it first,” she replied.
The first bite—
Coconut.
Turmeric.
A hint of spice.
And something else.
Something no one else could copy.
“So what’s special about him?” Syarifah asked.
Mary looked up.
Her gaze softened.
No defense.
No professionalism.
“He can recreate something… just by seeing and tasting it once.”
Syarifah raised a brow.
Mary continued, quieter.
“He doesn’t copy recipes.”
“He understands flavor.”
And I…
I still don’t know if he understands mine.
In the kitchen, Khai stood in front of the pot.
His hands moved.
His mind didn’t.
Why did you come back?
Why make me feel like this again?
If you’re just playing… don’t.
I’m not as strong as before.
He gripped the ladle tighter.
I let you go because I thought it was right.
But now that you’re standing here—
Why does it still feel like home?
Khai took a slow breath.
A genius of imitation.
But this time—
He wasn’t trying to recreate a dish.
He was trying to control his own heart.
Comments (0)
See all