The SOP of Love

Faris had always believed there were two kinds of problems.

The ones that could be solved with process.

And the ones that could not.

Meridian Harbor Systems was built on the first kind. You documented, you escalated, you aligned stakeholders, you ran cutover checklists until the world behaved. If it didn’t, you adjusted the plan until it did. There was a comfort in that–clean lines, clear ownership, auditable trails.

Love was not supposed to fit into any of it.

Yet, as the week slid forward, Faris caught himself turning Jiawen’s Penang invitation into a tracker.

Not a literal tracker. He wasn’t insane.

But close.

On Monday night, after they left the office separately–because some habits, even with “status,” had become self-preservation–Faris drove home with his mind flipping through tasks like pages.

Leave application. Coverage. Flight times. Hotel? No, staying with family? What did that mean? Suitcase? Gifts? Appropriate clothing? Appropriate words? Appropriate distance? What did appropriate even look like when the people judging you had known Jiawen since she was a child?

And then there was the message.

He’s really the reason you left?

It sat in his head like a bruise you kept pressing.

At a red light, Faris rubbed his thumb against the steering wheel and exhaled slowly. He told himself, again, not to rush into rescue mode.

Jiawen had shut Junhao down before.

In Two Seats Closer, he’d learned how important it was to stand beside her without stepping in front.

But Penang wasn’t Singapore.

Singapore had rules he could navigate. HR, processes, reporting chains–things he could handle with calm professionalism.

Penang was family.

Penang was stories.

Penang was the kind of scrutiny you couldn’t “escalate” to anyone.

His phone buzzed.

A message from Jiawen.

Dinner? I want prata. Not fancy. Prata only.

Faris’s mouth twitched.

Even in the middle of something heavy, she could still choose comfort like it was a form of rebellion.

He replied:

Ten minutes.

Then he added, after a brief pause:

You okay?

The reply came immediately.

I’m okay. But I want to talk. And I want you to stop thinking so loudly.

Faris stared at the text for a second.

He typed:

I’m not thinking loudly.

Then:

How do you know?

Her answer:

Because you’re you.

The light turned green.

He drove.

The prata shop was the kind of place that didn’t care who you were. Plastic chairs, stainless steel tables, bright lights that made everyone look slightly tired, a TV playing something too loud, too dramatic.

Faris liked it for that.

He arrived first and chose a table near the side, away from the main aisle. Not because he was trying to hide–he was done hiding–but because this habit had been ingrained in him for years: choose a spot that gave you space.

Jiawen came five minutes later, walking fast like she was late for a meeting. Her hair was slightly damp, as if she’d showered and then immediately decided she didn’t want to sit with her own thoughts.

She slid into the seat opposite him and set her phone down face-up this time. A small act of defiance.

“You ordered?” she asked.

“Not yet.”

Jiawen leaned forward slightly. “Good. I want to watch you panic when I say I want egg.”

Faris frowned. “Egg is normal.”

Jiawen’s eyes widened theatrically. “Wah. Mr Faris Zulkarnain is adventurous today.”

He ignored her and signaled to the staff.

Two plain, one egg, one cheese because Jiawen would pretend to be scandalized and then eat it anyway. Teh tarik for her, kopi-O for him.

When the staff walked away, Jiawen’s smile softened.

“So,” she said, quieter. “Penang.”

Faris nodded.

Jiawen tapped her phone once. “My mother already started. She asked if you have any food restrictions. I told her halal. Then she said… she knows.”

Faris’s brows knitted. “She knows what?”

“That you’re Muslim.” Jiawen’s mouth tugged into something uncertain. “It wasn’t a problem. But it was… a moment.”

Faris studied her face.

“You’re worried,” he said.

Jiawen shrugged, but her shoulders stayed slightly raised. “I’m not worried about you being Muslim. I’m worried about them thinking it means only one direction. Like… if we become serious, I must become something else.”

Faris’s chest tightened.

It was the first time she’d put it into words like that.

He had always known this conversation would exist, someday. But there was a difference between knowing and hearing.

“I won’t ask you to perform,” Faris said slowly.

Jiawen’s eyes lifted.

“I’m Buddhist,” she said, as if reminding herself too.

“I know.”

“My family is very… Penang.” She let out a breath. “They’ll be polite. They’ll be kind. But they will ask questions until you feel like you’re being interviewed by a very friendly police officer.”

Faris’s mouth twitched.

“That sounds familiar,” he said.

Jiawen narrowed her eyes. “Don’t make it work humour. This is my family. They’re not clients.”

“I know.” Faris leaned forward slightly. “That’s why I’m thinking.”

Jiawen groaned. “There it is.”

Faris blinked. “What?”

“You’re already planning,” Jiawen accused, but she wasn’t angry. She sounded like someone watching a familiar habit unfold.

“I’m… trying to be prepared.”

“For what?” Jiawen asked. “For my aunties?”

“For you.”

The words came out before Faris could filter them.

Jiawen’s expression shifted.

Faris held her gaze.

“I don’t want you to feel alone,” he said again, the same truth he’d said in the pantry earlier. “But I also don’t want to be the reason you feel small.”

Jiawen’s lips parted slightly.

They sat in silence until the drinks came.

Jiawen wrapped her hands around her cup, letting the warmth seep into her palms. Faris watched her fingers–back to life now, moving slowly.

“What’s your plan?” she asked.

Faris hesitated.

If he said it out loud, it would become real.

“We apply leave. We plan work coverage. We book flights early to get good timing. We bring gifts. We decide what to say when they ask about…” He paused. “About intentions.”

Jiawen’s mouth twitched. “You really said ‘intentions’ like you’re a drama male lead.”

Faris deadpanned. “I’m not a drama male lead.”

“You are when you’re stressed.” Jiawen sipped her tea. “Okay. So what do we say?”

Faris’s fingers rested on the table edge. “We tell the truth. We’re together. We’re serious. We’re taking it properly.”

Jiawen’s eyes softened at the word.

“Proper,” she echoed.

Faris nodded.

Jiawen’s gaze drifted toward the window where rain streaked faintly against the glass. “And if they ask about… religion?”

Faris inhaled slowly.

“We say the truth,” he repeated. “That we respect each other. That we’re talking. That we’re not hiding.”

Jiawen’s expression tightened, a small flicker of fear. “But what if they want answers I can’t give yet?”

Faris studied her.

He wanted to promise her certainty. But he’d learned not to offer half-truths wrapped in comfort.

“Then we don’t give answers we don’t have,” he said. “We don’t make it vague. We don’t make it dramatic. We just… we’re honest.”

Jiawen’s shoulders lowered a fraction.

“And Junhao?” she asked quietly, as if his name tasted sour.

Faris’s jaw tightened.

“We handle that properly too,” he said.

Jiawen raised one brow. “You and your properly.”

“It worked for HR,” Faris replied.

“HR is not my ex.”

“I know.” Faris kept his voice calm. “But the principle is the same. No ambiguity. No negotiation. Documentation. Clear boundaries.”

Jiawen stared at him for a long moment.

Then she laughed softly, breathy.

“Wah,” she said. “You really are HR, but handsome.”

Faris sighed. “Again with this insult.”

Jiawen’s laughter warmed, then faded.

“You know what the scary part is?” she said.

“What?”

Jiawen looked down at her cup. “I’m not scared of my family rejecting you. They won’t. They’re not like that.”

Faris waited.

“I’m scared of them accepting you,” Jiawen admitted, voice very soft. “Because once they accept you, it becomes real. Like… you’re not just my office boyfriend. You’re my life.”

Faris felt something tighten in his throat.

He swallowed.

“I’m already in your life,” he said.

Jiawen looked up.

Faris’s gaze held hers.

“And you’re in mine,” he added. “Properly.”

Jiawen’s smile trembled, held back tears, then she blinked them away quickly like she was embarrassed by her own softness.

“Okay lah,” she said, voice attempting casual. “Then we do it. Penang.”

Faris nodded.

The prata arrived–hot, glossy, slightly too oily. Jiawen tore a piece with her fingers and dipped it into curry like she was grounding herself in something simple.

They ate in a kind of quiet that wasn’t empty.

Faris watched her, then spoke.

“There’s one more thing,” he said.

Jiawen chewed and looked at him. “What?”

“My mother.”

Jiawen froze mid-bite.

Faris continued carefully. “If your family wants to meet me properly, it’s fair that my family meets you properly too.”

Jiawen swallowed, eyes widening.

“Your mother will… want to meet me?” she asked.

Faris didn’t sugarcoat. “She will be cautious.”

Jiawen’s mouth tightened. “Because I’m not Muslim.”

Faris held her gaze.

“Yes,” he said honestly. “But she will also be fair. And she will respect you if you respect her.”

Jiawen stared at him for a second, then exhaled.

“Okay,” she said. “Door deal.”

Faris blinked.

Jiawen pointed her prata at him like it was a weapon. “Your family, you lead. My family, I lead. We meet halfway. You cannot bulldoze. I cannot disappear. Door deal.”

Faris’s mouth twitched.

“Door deal,” he echoed.

Jiawen nodded, satisfied, and returned to her prata like she had just signed an important contract.

Faris watched her and felt his chest warm with something dangerously close to tenderness.

This was what he’d wanted all along.

Not drama.

Not chasing.

Just someone who met him in the middle and didn’t ask him to shrink.

Two nights later, Faris found himself standing in Jiawen’s living room with a notebook.

Not his work notebook.

A plain, black notebook that he had bought on impulse at Popular Bookstore, like the kind you bought when you wanted to take something seriously but didn’t want to announce it.

Jiawen sat cross-legged on her sofa, hair clipped up messily, wearing an oversized T-shirt that had a small cartoon on it. She looked like a person who lived here–comfortable, unguarded.

On the coffee table were three items that made Faris’s brain itch:

A printed Penang itinerary Jiawen’s cousin had sent.

A sticky note with half-written Malay phrases Jiawen had Googled.

And a packet of tissue paper.

Faris stared at the tissue.

Jiawen followed his gaze.

“What?” she asked.

“That’s not tissue,” Faris said.

Jiawen grinned. “It’s my handkerchief practice.”

Faris blinked.

Jiawen reached for the packet dramatically. “I want to see how you look when you offer it to me again. Like the orchestra night.”

Faris’s ears warmed. “That was not… a performance.”

“It was very romantic,” Jiawen said matter-of-factly.

Faris stared at her.

Jiawen’s grin widened. “Okay lah, not romantic. But it was… significant.”

Faris looked away. “Can we focus?”

Jiawen sat up straighter, mock-serious. “Yes, Project Manager Faris. Today’s agenda?”

Faris flipped open his notebook.

He had written a list.

It wasn’t a tracker.

But it was dangerously close.

“Leave application,” he said.

“Done,” Jiawen replied instantly. “Already submitted.”

Faris looked up, surprised.

Jiawen smiled smugly. “See? I can do things.”

Faris nodded slowly. “Okay. Work coverage?”

“I told Amira to cover my inbox. She said yes. But she also said she wants souvenirs.”

Faris’s mouth twitched. “That’s fair.”

Jiawen leaned forward, eyes bright. “Now you.”

Faris hesitated, then admitted, “I… haven’t applied yet.”

Jiawen stared at him.

Faris lifted a hand slightly. “I wanted to check the client timeline first. We have a checkpoint next week.”

Jiawen’s eyes narrowed.

“Faris,” she said slowly, “you are not allowed to cancel Penang because of a checkpoint.”

“I’m not cancelling,” he said.

“You’re delaying,” Jiawen accused.

Faris exhaled.

Jiawen reached out and tapped his notebook lightly. “Door deal. We do it properly. Apply.”

Faris looked at her.

Then he nodded.

“Tonight,” he said.

Jiawen’s shoulders loosened.

“Okay,” she murmured. Then she clapped her hands once. “Next agenda. Penang questions.”

Faris’s fingers tightened around his pen.

Jiawen grinned. “I will be my auntie. You will be you.”

Faris stared. “No.”

“Yes.” Jiawen’s grin turned wicked. “Come. Simulation.”

Faris opened his mouth to refuse, then realized he was already trapped.

Jiawen shifted, sitting upright like she had posture training.

She folded her hands on her lap like an auntie preparing to judge your entire existence.

Then she narrowed her eyes at Faris with an unsettling accuracy.

“Aiya,” she began, voice suddenly higher, with a Penang lilt. “So you are the boyfriend ah?”

Faris froze.

Jiawen continued, merciless. “Wah, very old already. Twenty-nine. Why never married?”

Faris’s mouth opened.

Jiawen leaned forward. “You Muslim right? You want her convert right? You already plan everything right?”

Faris blinked hard.

Jiawen’s eyes glittered. “Answer.”

Faris exhaled slowly.

“I–”

Jiawen cut him off, waving a hand. “No no no. You cannot say ‘I’. You must say something polite. Like… ‘Auntie, thank you for asking.’”

Faris stared at her.

Jiawen’s grin widened. “Come. Practice.”

Faris pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Jiawen,” he said, voice tight, “this is not funny.”

Jiawen’s grin softened immediately.

“Okay,” she said quietly. “Then let’s not joke.”

The shift in her tone made Faris look up.

Jiawen’s eyes held his.

“I’m scared,” she admitted. “So I make it funny.”

Faris’s chest tightened.

He set his pen down.

“Hey,” he said softly.

Jiawen’s mouth trembled like she was trying not to cry.

Faris reached into his pocket.

He hadn’t planned to bring it.

But he always had it now.

A clean, folded handkerchief–plain, soft, white.

He held it out without speaking.

Jiawen stared at it.

Then she laughed once, breathy.

“You’re doing it again,” she whispered.

Faris shrugged slightly. “It works.”

Jiawen reached for it, but instead of taking it, she pressed her fingers against the fabric, grounding herself.

Then she said quietly, “Okay. Not simulation. Real talk.”

Faris nodded.

Jiawen drew in a breath.

“When they ask about religion,” she said, “I don’t want you to answer for me. And I don’t want them to answer for me either.”

Faris’s gaze stayed steady.

“Okay,” he said.

“And when they talk about the future,” Jiawen continued, voice more firm now, “I want us to be aligned. Not vague. Not dramatic. Just… aligned.”

Faris nodded.

Jiawen’s fingers stayed on the handkerchief.

“And when Junhao tries to appear,” she said, eyes sharpening, “I don’t want to feel like my life can be shaken by a number on a screen.”

Faris’s jaw tightened.

“We document,” he said.

Jiawen blinked, then smiled faintly.

“Handsome HR,” she murmured.

Faris sighed, but the affection in his eyes gave him away.

Jiawen sat back. “Okay. So. We decide our lines.”

Faris picked up his pen again.

He wrote a heading in his notebook.

Penang – Key Questions

Jiawen leaned over to look.

“Wah,” she said. “You really wrote heading.”

Faris didn’t look up. “Yes.”

Jiawen laughed softly.

Faris wrote the first question.

1) What are your intentions?

Jiawen tilted her head. “Answer?”

Faris paused.

Then he wrote, slowly:

We are serious. We are taking it properly. We want to involve family with respect.

Jiawen stared at the words.

Then she nodded.

“Okay,” she whispered.

Faris wrote the second.

2) Religion? Future?

He hesitated.

Jiawen’s voice softened. “Write what’s true.”

Faris exhaled.

He wrote:

We respect each other. We don’t force. We will talk openly and involve both families.

Jiawen nodded again.

Then she pointed at the notebook.

“Add one more,” she said.

Faris looked up. “What?”

Jiawen’s eyes were steady now.

3) Are you choosing me, or are you just comfortable?

Faris’s breath caught.

Jiawen watched him.

“I know it’s a stupid question,” she said quickly, trying to backtrack. “But it’s in my head sometimes. Like… what if I’m just the safe option after Amani?”

Faris’s jaw tightened.

He reached across the table and covered her hand with his.

Not squeezing.

Just steady.

“You’re not timing,” he said.

Jiawen’s eyes glistened.

“You’re not convenience,” Faris continued. His voice was calm, but there was steel under it. “You’re… you.”

Jiawen swallowed.

Faris’s thumb brushed lightly over her knuckles.

“And I’m choosing you,” he said. “Properly.”

Jiawen blinked hard, then laughed, but it was the kind of laugh that came with tears.

“Okay lah,” she whispered.

Then she pulled her hand away–only to wipe her eyes quickly with the handkerchief.

Faris watched her.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, a thought flickered.

Two seats.

Reserved.

Not by accident.

By choice.

On Thursday, the office reminded them that private courage always had to coexist with public structure.

Faris arrived earlier than usual, the kind of early that made the office feel like a sleeping machine. The lights were dimmer. The carpet smelled faintly of cleaning solution. The pantry was quiet enough that the kettle sounded like a confession.

He opened his laptop, checked his inbox, and saw the HR invite.

Quarterly Compliance Check-in – Relationship Disclosure Follow-up

The subject line was polite.

The timing was not.

Faris stared at it for a moment, jaw tightening.

Jiawen arrived ten minutes later, hair neatly clipped back, face composed. She dropped into her seat, booted up her laptop, then glanced at him.

“You look like you saw a ghost,” she murmured.

Faris turned his screen slightly toward her.

Jiawen read the subject line.

Her shoulders stiffened.

Then she exhaled slowly.

“Of course,” she said, voice flat.

Faris watched her.

She didn’t crumble. She didn’t panic. She simply… absorbed it.

And that steadiness made him love her in a way that felt almost inconvenient.

“We already disclosed,” Jiawen said, more to herself than to him.

“Yes,” Faris replied. “But they want follow-up.”

Jiawen’s mouth tightened. “Because we are a quarterly risk.”

Faris’s eyes stayed on her.

Jiawen looked up.

For a second, her expression threatened to crack.

Then she lifted her chin.

“Okay,” she said. “We do it properly.”

Faris’s mouth twitched.

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be smug.”

Before Faris could answer, Reza’s voice floated in from the aisle.

“Eh,” Reza said, appearing like a creature summoned by tension. “Why you two so serious? Again HR ah?”

Jiawen turned to him with a smile that was pure sugar and pure threat.

“Reza,” she said sweetly, “if you have time to be curious, you have time to finish your UAT scripts.”

Reza gasped, clutched his chest, and walked away dramatically.

Faris watched him go.

Then he looked back at Jiawen.

“Penang is next month,” he said quietly. “HR is next week.”

Jiawen nodded.

Faris continued, carefully, “We can handle both.”

Jiawen’s eyes softened.

“Door deal,” she said.

Faris nodded.

“Door deal,” he echoed.

They sat in the hum of the office for a moment, both staring at their screens without seeing them.

Then Jiawen’s phone vibrated.

Once.

Faris’s gaze flicked toward it automatically.

Jiawen’s hand moved faster.

She flipped it over.

Locked it.

Placed it down.

She didn’t look at it again.

Faris watched her.

His chest tightened.

He wanted to ask.

He didn’t.

He waited.

Jiawen’s fingers resumed typing, steady.

After a minute, she spoke without looking up.

“It’s him,” she said.

Faris’s jaw tightened.

Jiawen finally lifted her eyes.

“But he doesn’t get to choose when I shake,” she said. “Not anymore.”

Faris held her gaze.

“Good,” he said softly.

Jiawen stared at him for a beat.

Then she smiled–small, real.

“Tonight,” she said, voice lightening again. “We continue the Penang SOP.”

Faris’s mouth twitched.

“Our love has SOP now?”

“Yes,” Jiawen replied, dead serious. “Because you are incapable of not making everything into a process.”

Faris opened his mouth to defend himself.

Jiawen leaned in.

“And because,” she added quietly, “if we do it properly, maybe I won’t be scared.”

Faris’s chest tightened.

He nodded.

“Okay,” he said.

Jiawen’s smile softened.

In the fluorescent light, in the glass-walled world where love became gossip and gossip became policy, they returned to their work.

But the shape of their next month was already forming.

Penang.

HR.

Junhao.

Family.

And somewhere beneath all of it, a quieter truth Faris was starting to accept:

He could plan all he wanted.

But the most important thing–the thing that would carry them through–was not a checklist.

It was a decision.

And he had already made it.