Office Hours, Lunch Hours
On Tuesday morning, Jiawen learned that the office was loud in ways that didn’t make noise.
It was in the way Teams pings stacked like falling dominoes, in the silent flicker of screens reflecting in glass walls, in the tension of people walking with purpose even when they weren’t running. Meridian Harbor Systems didn’t shout. It hummed–steady, relentless, like a machine that assumed you would match its rhythm.
The air-conditioning was the same, cold enough to keep you awake and small enough to keep you aware that you were not in charge of your comfort.
Jiawen stepped out of the lift clutching a paper cup of kopi she’d forced herself to buy downstairs. She hadn’t wanted it. She’d wanted to sit in the café and breathe for five minutes before stepping back into CIS.
But full-time Jiawen didn’t have those indulgences.
She had a calendar invite at nine.
SkyFreight – Daily Sync (Internal).
In the pantry, she tore open the sugar packet with more aggression than necessary and stirred until her wrist began to ache. The coffee tasted like bitterness pretending to be strength.
Her phone buzzed again.
A message from Junhao.
Junhao: You okay? First day yesterday. Don’t stress too much.
Jiawen stared at the words, thumb hovering over the keyboard. There was affection there–simple, clean–but it also carried the soft assumption that he knew her life.
He didn’t.
Not this part.
She typed back anyway.
Jiawen: I’m okay. Just a lot to learn. Talk later.
When she lifted her head, Faris was walking into the pantry.
He moved with that steady, unhurried pace that made other people unconsciously adjust their speed around him. He wore the same rolled sleeves, the same clean shirt. His hair looked the same too–controlled, like he didn’t allow it to make decisions on its own.
“Morning,” he said.
Jiawen nearly jumped. “Morning. You scared me.”
“I walked normally,” he pointed out.
“You walked like a ghost.”
Faris’s mouth twitched. “I’ll try to walk louder next time.”
He reached for the kettle, then paused, looking at her cup.
“You started drinking kopi already.”
Jiawen blinked. “I always drink kopi.”
He raised an eyebrow.
Her face betrayed her.
She huffed. “Okay, fine. I don’t always drink kopi. But today I need it.”
Faris turned on the kettle, calm as ever. “You don’t need kopi. You need sleep.”
“I slept.”
He glanced at her eyes. “Define ‘slept.’”
Jiawen opened her mouth, then shut it.
Faris’s gaze softened, but his tone stayed matter-of-fact. “Today’s internal sync, you just listen. I’ll talk. After that, I’ll give you one small task. Don’t try to carry the whole project on your back.”
“I’m not trying to–”
“You are.”
Jiawen frowned. “How you know?”
Faris poured hot water into his cup, steam rising like a quiet warning. “Because it’s your first job and you’re trying to prove you deserve it. It’s a predictable pattern.”
Jiawen bristled, then–annoyingly–felt seen.
“Okay,” she muttered.
Faris looked at her. “Okay?”
“I mean… okay,” she repeated, louder, as if saying it with confidence would make it true.
He nodded once, satisfied. “Good.”
They walked out of the pantry together.
As they approached their desks, Jiawen’s eyes went instinctively to her chair. Yesterday, she had thudded onto the floor like a child dismounting a high stool.
Today, she tried to slide in with dignity.
Her heel caught the chair leg.
She wobbled.
Faris’s hand came out fast–steadying the chair, not her, but close enough that she felt the air shift.
Jiawen froze.
Faris’s expression didn’t change. He didn’t smirk. He didn’t tease.
“Careful,” he said again, like yesterday hadn’t happened.
Jiawen sat down carefully, cheeks warm. “I’m okay.”
“I know.”
The way he said it was quiet and simple.
Her heart did something irritating.
She opened her laptop to distract herself.
The SkyFreight folder stared back at her like a mountain with no visible peak.
Faris leaned over his screen and clicked into the Teams call.
“Join,” he said, gesturing at her.
Jiawen clicked.
The meeting grid filled with faces–Ben, Priya, Reza, two people from another team, and a man named Glenn who looked permanently tired.
Faris’s voice shifted as soon as the meeting started.
It wasn’t louder.
It was sharper.
“Okay, quick sync,” he said. “Yesterday we identified the integration issue on the shipment status mapping. Ben, any update? Priya, I need your revised UAT schedule by today. Glenn, I saw the client’s email at 10:52pm–don’t reply with timelines yet. We confirm first.”
Jiawen blinked.
He was still the same man. But the way he spoke in meetings made it feel like someone had removed all softness from him and replaced it with clean edges.
When Ben explained the issue, Faris asked questions in a sequence that made the problem unfold like a diagram.
What changed.
What failed.
What could break next.
He didn’t blame.
He didn’t panic.
He simply led.
Jiawen watched, fascinated despite herself.
She had expected seniors to either be intimidating or lazy. Faris was neither. He was present–fully.
When it was over, he ended the call and exhaled slowly.
“Any questions?” he asked.
Jiawen hesitated. She didn’t want to be the intern who asked too many questions.
But she also didn’t want to be the full-timer who pretended she understood and then ruined something quietly.
“Yes,” she said.
Faris looked at her, waiting.
“How do you… talk like that?”
A pause.
Faris blinked. “Talk like what?”
“Like…” Jiawen gestured vaguely. “Like you’re not scared.”
Faris leaned back in his chair. His expression was neutral, but there was a faint amusement in his eyes.
“You think I’m not scared?”
Jiawen frowned. “You look like you know everything.”
Faris’s mouth twitched. “I don’t. I just know what to do when I don’t.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“It’s not.” He turned his chair slightly to face her. “You can be scared and still be useful. The trick is not letting your fear make decisions for you.”
Jiawen stared at him.
The words sank in somewhere deeper than she expected.
Faris reached for a notebook on his desk. It was thick, the pages worn at the edges, and his handwriting filled it in tidy blocks.
“This helps,” he said, tapping it. “I write everything down. Not because I can’t remember. Because it clears my head.”
Jiawen squinted. “You’re like an uncle.”
Faris paused.
Jiawen realised what she’d said.
Her eyes widened.
Her face betrayed her so violently she thought her cheeks might actually melt.
Faris stared at her for two seconds.
Then his laugh came–quiet, genuine, and so sudden it made her freeze.
“An uncle,” he repeated.
“I didn’t mean–” Jiawen scrambled. “I mean like–like responsible. Like… organised.”
“You could have said ‘organised.’”
“I panicked.”
“You called me an uncle because you panicked.”
“Yes.”
Faris shook his head, still smiling. “Okay. Good to know.”
Jiawen groaned, covering her face with her hands. “Can you forget?”
“No.”
“Please.”
“No.”
Jiawen peeked through her fingers. “Wah, you’re so mean.”
“I’m mentoring,” he said again, deadpan.
“Mentoring my downfall.”
Faris leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. “Okay, ‘un–’”
“Don’t,” Jiawen warned, pointing.
Faris held up both hands, surrendering with a grin. “Okay. Work.”
He slid a printed document toward her.
It was titled: SkyFreight – UAT Script (v0.9).
“Your first task,” he said. “Read through this. Highlight anything you don’t understand. And I mean genuinely don’t understand–not just ‘I’m shy to ask.’ We review at three.”
Jiawen stared at the thick document. Her stomach tightened.
But she nodded. “Okay.”
Faris’s gaze held hers for a beat.
Then he said, softer, “You’re doing fine.”
Jiawen blinked.
It wasn’t a dramatic compliment.
It wasn’t even loud.
But it landed like a hand pressed gently against the centre of her chest–steadying.
She looked away quickly so he wouldn’t see what it did to her face.
By lunchtime, Jiawen’s brain had turned into a warehouse.
Boxes of information stacked everywhere, labels half peeled, warnings taped across the front.
She had highlighted enough lines in the UAT script to make it look like a school textbook, and each highlight carried a question.
When Priya leaned over her partition, Jiawen nearly yelped.
“Lunch?” Priya asked.
Jiawen blinked at the clock. 12:14.
She had been staring at the same paragraph for twelve minutes.
“Yes,” she said quickly, standing.
Faris stood too, pushing his chair back. “Same place?” he asked the group.
They ended up in the same food court, the same table. The routine felt comforting, like a ritual that said she was part of something now.
Reza immediately launched into a story about a client who had sent an angry email at midnight, complete with dramatic voice acting.
Jiawen laughed too loud again.
Then remembered.
Her laughter died abruptly.
Faris glanced at her, eyebrows raised in silent question.
Jiawen cleared her throat. “Sorry.”
Faris’s eyes softened slightly, and he said nothing.
The silence felt like permission.
As the conversation flowed, Jiawen found herself speaking more–small things. About how she had gotten lost in the MRT interchange yesterday because she had taken the wrong exit. About how she still couldn’t get used to the office cold.
Ben nodded sympathetically. “Bring jacket. Always.”
Priya pointed at her. “We all suffer here. It’s like they want us to freeze so we don’t slack.”
Reza laughed. “Maybe cost saving. No need pantry snacks if everyone too cold to eat.”
Jiawen smiled, then paused when her phone buzzed again.
Junhao.
Junhao: Tonight free? I can meet you after work.
Jiawen’s chest tightened.
She stared at the message too long.
Priya noticed. “Boyfriend ah?”
Jiawen looked up, startled. “Huh?”
Reza grinned. “Confirm boyfriend. Only boyfriend can make people stare at phone like that.”
Jiawen’s cheeks warmed. “Yes, boyfriend.”
Faris was quiet, eating slowly.
Ben asked casually, “He also in Singapore?”
“Yeah,” Jiawen said. “He’s Malaysian too, but he works here.”
Priya nodded. “Okay lah. At least can meet often.”
Jiawen hesitated, then shrugged. “Sometimes. He’s busy.”
Reza pointed his spoon at her. “But you said he’s ‘the one’ right?”
Jiawen blinked. “I–when did I say that?”
“You intern time, you always talk about him,” Reza said. “Got once you said, ‘This one is the one.’”
Jiawen’s face warmed further, mortified.
Faris finally looked up.
His gaze flicked to her face, reading her embarrassment with that quiet attentiveness he had.
Jiawen lifted her chin defensively. “He is what.”
Reza laughed. “Okay lah, okay lah. Not disturb. Just teasing.”
Jiawen tried to act unfazed, but the words stayed in her head.
The one.
It was a phrase she had thrown out carelessly in the past, like it was romantic and inevitable. Like you could decide permanence just by believing in it.
Now, sitting at the table with colleagues who actually knew the pace of adulthood, the phrase felt… naïve.
Faris didn’t say anything.
But when Jiawen glanced at him, she saw his expression–neutral, but distant for a second. Like something had been noted and filed away.
To lighten the mood, Jiawen forced herself into humour. “Why you all so kaypoh one? I came here to work, not to–”
“To find boyfriend,” Reza finished, grinning.
Jiawen made an exaggerated gagging face.
Ben snorted.
Priya laughed.
Faris’s mouth twitched.
Jiawen noticed.
Her face betrayed her.
Faris’s eyes crinkled slightly. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?” Jiawen demanded.
“That face.”
“What face?”
“The… entertainment,” he said, choosing the word carefully, as if it was safer than calling her cute.
Jiawen stared at him, then at the rest of the group.
Everyone was smiling.
Something warm rose in her chest despite the cold office air.
She was new.
But she wasn’t invisible.
After lunch, as they stood to return trays, Faris walked beside her.
“You okay?” he asked quietly, away from the others.
Jiawen blinked. “Why you ask?”
“Because you went quiet for a moment.”
Jiawen hesitated, then shrugged. “Just… thinking. About life.”
Faris looked at her, expression unreadable. “Life on Tuesday afternoon is dangerous.”
Jiawen laughed. “You always so serious.”
“Someone has to be,” he said.
“Are you serious outside of work also?”
Faris paused.
It was only a second, but Jiawen noticed–how he didn’t answer immediately.
Then he said, “Less.”
Jiawen tilted her head. “Less serious means still serious.”
Faris’s mouth twitched. “Maybe.”
They entered the lift.
Jiawen watched their reflections in the metal wall–her small frame beside his tall one. She looked like a kid who had wandered into the wrong floor.
He looked like he belonged anywhere.
It annoyed her.
It also made her feel safe.
The afternoon was a blur of quiet learning.
Faris had meetings. Priya had calls. Ben disappeared into a corner with headphones on, typing like his life depended on it.
Jiawen sat at her desk with the UAT script, highlighting, writing questions in the margins.
Every now and then she glanced at Faris.
He was on a call, speaking in that crisp, calm tone again. His brow would furrow at specific moments, then smooth. He nodded while listening, pen tapping lightly against the notebook.
When he ended the call, he didn’t slump.
He simply moved to the next thing.
Jiawen wondered if he ever felt tired.
At 2:17pm, an email popped into Jiawen’s inbox.
From: SkyFreight Ops Manager
Subject: URGENT – Dashboard numbers don’t match warehouse report
Jiawen’s heart jumped.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
She read the email again.
The client said the dashboard numbers looked wrong and asked if MHS had broken something.
Her first instinct was to reply quickly–apologise, reassure, promise to fix.
Because silence felt like incompetence.
Her cursor blinked in the reply window.
She began to type.
Then she remembered Faris’s voice from yesterday.
Don’t promise timelines. Confirm first.
Jiawen swallowed.
She stared at the email, then glanced at Faris.
He was looking at his screen, focused.
Jiawen hesitated.
Asking him felt like admitting she couldn’t handle something simple.
But handling it wrongly would be worse.
She stood and walked around the partition, stopping at his desk.
Faris looked up immediately.
His eyes moved from her face to her posture, reading the tension in her shoulders.
“What happened?” he asked.
Jiawen held up her laptop slightly, like evidence. “Client email. They say dashboard numbers wrong. They sound angry.”
Faris’s gaze dropped to the subject line.
He didn’t panic.
He didn’t sigh.
He simply said, “Good job not replying yet.”
Jiawen blinked. “Huh?”
Faris pushed his chair back. “Sit.” He pointed at the empty chair beside him.
Jiawen sat, perching on the edge like she might be asked to leave any moment.
Faris opened the email, scanning quickly.
“Okay,” he said. “We need to check whether it’s data mapping or client report issue. You see the wording? ‘Warehouse report.’ That could be their internal report pulling different time range.”
Jiawen nodded slowly.
Faris clicked into a dashboard view, then pulled up a dataset.
His fingers moved fast, but he explained as he went.
“First rule: client is angry because they’re scared. Not because they hate you. So we don’t respond defensively. We respond with structure.”
Jiawen watched, absorbing.
Faris continued, “We acknowledge. We confirm we’re investigating. We ask for screenshots and the specific report name. No promises.”
Jiawen nodded again.
Faris looked at her. “You want to draft the reply? I review.”
Jiawen’s chest tightened. “Me?”
“Yes. You’re full-time now.”
Her stomach flipped.
She took a breath. “Okay.”
Faris’s eyes held hers for a beat–like he was silently telling her he wouldn’t let her fall.
Then he turned his chair back to his desk, giving her space.
Jiawen returned to her seat and typed carefully.
Hi [Name],
Thank you for flagging this. We’re looking into the dashboard figure discrepancy and will verify the data mapping and time range used.
Could you share a screenshot of the dashboard view you’re referring to, as well as the name/time range of the warehouse report you are comparing against? This will help us pinpoint the difference more quickly.
We’ll update you once we complete the initial checks.
Regards, Jiawen
She stared at it, then sent it to Faris on Teams for review.
Her heart pounded like she’d just run.
Faris leaned over the partition slightly, reading.
A beat passed.
Then he nodded. “Good.”
Jiawen blinked. “Really?”
“Yes. Minor tweak: add that we’ll revert by end of day with initial findings. That’s not a promise of fix. It’s a promise of update.”
Jiawen nodded quickly, grateful.
She made the edit.
Sent.
The moment the email left her outbox, Jiawen felt both proud and terrified.
Faris tapped her desk lightly as he passed. “See? Not drowning.”
Jiawen’s throat tightened again.
She swallowed it down, forcing humour. “Not yet.”
Faris’s smile appeared briefly, then vanished as his phone buzzed.
He glanced at the screen.
Jiawen caught only a name at the top.
Amani.
Faris’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes dulled for a second.
He silenced the phone.
Then he turned back to his laptop, posture straightening.
Work mode.
Jiawen stared at the back of his head, puzzled.
Amani.
She didn’t know who that was.
But the way Faris had looked at the name–like it carried weight–made Jiawen feel as if she had brushed against a door she wasn’t meant to open.
At three o’clock, Faris rolled his chair toward her.
“UAT script review,” he said.
Jiawen lifted the highlighted pages like a confession. “I highlighted a lot.”
Faris glanced at the rainbow of ink. “Good. Let’s go.”
They went through it line by line.
Faris explained what each step meant, why the system behaved certain ways, which parts were critical and which parts were just documentation fluff.
Jiawen asked her questions.
Faris answered.
Sometimes he’d say, “I don’t know. We check.”
And every time he said it, Jiawen felt something inside her unclench.
You could be competent and still not have everything.
You could lead and still learn.
By the time they were done, the office had shifted into evening light.
The window view turned warmer, the skyline hazier.
Jiawen stretched her arms, bones aching from sitting too long.
Faris closed his notebook. “Good work today.”
Jiawen looked at him, surprised.
Faris’s expression was mild. “You didn’t panic. You asked. You drafted. You learned. That’s good.”
Jiawen’s cheeks warmed.
“Okay,” she said softly.
Faris looked at her. “Okay.”
It wasn’t teasing.
It was agreement.
As Jiawen packed her bag, her phone buzzed again.
Junhao.
Junhao: I can pick you up? We go makan.
Jiawen stared at the message.
Something in her chest tightened–not because she didn’t want to see him, but because she suddenly couldn’t imagine explaining this day to someone who didn’t understand how heavy it felt.
She glanced at Faris.
He was still at his desk, typing, focused.
He looked up briefly. “You going off?”
Jiawen nodded. “Yes.”
Faris stood, grabbing his phone. “Okay. Walk together. I’m heading down also.”
Jiawen blinked. “You also going home?”
“I’m going to the carpark.”
Jiawen hesitated. “You drive?”
Faris nodded. “Yes.”
“Wah. Rich.”
Faris shot her a look. “Not rich. Just old.”
Jiawen gasped. “You are not old.”
“Uncle,” he reminded, deadpan.
Jiawen groaned so loudly Ben looked up from his screen.
Faris’s smile returned–quick and quiet–then he walked toward the lift with her.
In the lift, they stood side by side.
Jiawen’s reflection looked small, tired, but… steadier than yesterday.
Faris’s reflection looked the same as always–composed.
But when his phone buzzed again and he glanced down, Jiawen caught the same name.
Amani.
He didn’t answer.
He simply slipped the phone back into his pocket, jaw tightening and releasing like he’d swallowed a thought.
The lift doors opened.
The lobby lights were warmer than the office floor.
For a second, Jiawen expected him to leave immediately, to disappear into his adult life.
Instead, Faris paused at the turnstile.
“First week is always heavy,” he said quietly, eyes forward, as if speaking too directly would be embarrassing. “If you feel like you’re struggling, you tell me. Don’t keep it inside.”
Jiawen’s throat tightened.
She managed a small laugh. “You sound like… a motivational poster.”
Faris glanced down at her, amused. “Better than drowning.”
Jiawen nodded, swallowing the warmth that rose in her chest.
“Okay,” she said again.
Faris tapped his card and the light turned green.
“Okay,” he replied.
As they walked out into the evening air–Singapore humid and thick after the office cold–Jiawen felt something settle inside her.
Not romance.
Not yet.
But trust.
And somewhere, faintly, the sense that she had stepped into a story that wasn’t going to stay simple.
Because Faris’s phone buzzed once more as they parted ways at the building entrance, and this time he looked down long enough for Jiawen to see the expression that crossed his face.
Not annoyance.
Not humour.
Something quieter.
Something complicated.
Then he looked up, nodded at her.
“See you tomorrow,” he said.
Jiawen nodded back. “See you.”
And as she walked toward the MRT, her phone still buzzing with Junhao’s messages, Jiawen realised she was thinking about a name she didn’t know.
Amani.
She didn’t know why it mattered.
But the feeling in her chest told her it would.