Tea With the Parents
The next morning, the world behaved as if nothing had happened.
Penang still woke up hungry.
The corridor outside Jiawen’s parents’ apartment still smelled faintly of someone’s curry leaves frying too early, too enthusiastically. A neighbour still dragged a plastic stool across tile with the same scraping sound that made Faris’ teeth itch. Motorbikes still coughed into life under the block and disappeared like restless insects.
And yet, inside the living room, the phone on the dining table still carried Junhao’s message thread like a stain that wouldn’t rinse off.
Faris saw it the moment he stepped out of the guest room.
Jiawen’s father had placed his phone there, face up, as if daring the universe to try again.
There were no new notifications.
There didn’t need to be.
The finality was already written.
Do not contact my daughter or my family again. She has made her decision. If you continue, we will report. Respect or face consequences.
Faris glanced at Jiawen.
She was in the kitchen doorway, hair still damp, wearing an oversized tee that made her look younger than she was. She held a mug with both hands, as if heat could keep her steady.
Her eyes met his for a second.
Not fear.
Not relief.
Something quieter.
Like her body hadn’t fully learned yet that the door was shut.
Faris didn’t ask if she was okay.
Not because he didn’t care.
Because he knew she was tired of being asked the same question over and over like it could become a spell.
Instead, he nodded once–small.
She nodded back.
Door deal.
We’re here.
We’re still us.
Jiawen’s mother moved in the kitchen, clinking dishes and talking to herself in Mandarin like it was normal to narrate life out loud.
“Eat first,” she called, voice firm. “Later go out. If you don’t eat, later you faint.”
Jiawen muttered under her breath, “Ma thinks we are all dying every day.”
Faris’s mouth twitched.
He sat at the dining table.
Jiawen’s father was already there, coffee cup in one hand, newspaper folded beside it.
He looked up when Faris sat.
No smile.
No hostility.
Just that calm gaze that seemed to weigh people quietly.
“Good morning,” Faris said.
“Morning,” Jiawen’s father replied.
A pause.
Then, without warning, Jiawen’s father said, “Later, you come with me.”
Faris blinked.
“Where?” Jiawen asked immediately from the kitchen doorway, suspicious.
Her father’s eyes slid to her. “Market.”
Jiawen frowned. “Why he need to go market?”
Her father sipped his coffee. “He need to learn Penang.”
Jiawen made a face. “He already ate char kway teow yesterday. That is Penang enough.”
Her father’s mouth twitched faintly.
“Not enough,” he said.
Faris sat still.
He understood.
This wasn’t about vegetables.
This was about space.
A private lane.
Man to man.
A chance for Jiawen’s father to ask the questions he hadn’t asked in front of Jiawen.
Faris nodded once.
“Yes, Uncle,” he said.
Jiawen’s eyes narrowed at him. “Eh. Why you say yes so fast? You scared of him?”
Faris looked at her with dead seriousness. “Yes.”
Jiawen’s mouth dropped open.
Her mother laughed loudly from the kitchen. “Good. Scared is good. Men must be scared of father.”
Jiawen groaned. “Ma!”
Jiawen’s father didn’t even deny it.
He folded his newspaper and stood.
“Ten minutes,” he said to Faris.
Then he walked to the bedroom to change, leaving Faris alone with Jiawen and her mother’s laughter.
Jiawen slid into the chair opposite Faris, eyes sharp.
“What is this?” she whispered.
Faris lifted one shoulder slightly. “Market.”
Jiawen narrowed her eyes. “No. This is interrogation.”
Faris’s mouth twitched. “Probably.”
Jiawen leaned forward, voice lower. “Don’t let him bully you.”
Faris looked at her.
“Your father isn’t bullying,” he said softly. “He’s… checking.”
Jiawen’s lips pressed together.
Faris watched her fingers–she was still holding her mug with both hands like it was an anchor.
He reached into his pocket without thinking.
The handkerchief.
He didn’t pull it out.
He just touched the fabric, grounding himself.
Jiawen’s gaze flicked down to his pocket, then back up.
“You bring it everywhere,” she murmured.
Faris’s mouth tightened. “It’s useful.”
Jiawen’s eyes softened slightly. “For you or for me?”
Faris hesitated.
Then he answered honestly.
“Both,” he said.
Jiawen’s mouth trembled into a small smile.
Then she sat back, exhaling.
“Okay,” she said, trying to sound casual. “Door deal. You handle my father. I handle my aunties.”
Faris’s mouth twitched.
“And your mother?” he asked.
Jiawen groaned. “No one can handle my mother. Even my father cannot.”
Faris let out a quiet laugh.
Jiawen’s mother emerged from the kitchen with a tray.
Congee. Eggs. A plate of something that looked like kuih.
She placed it down with firm authority.
“Eat,” she commanded.
Faris obeyed.
Jiawen stared at the food like it had offended her.
Her mother smacked her shoulder lightly. “You also eat.”
Jiawen muttered, “I eat yesterday the whole Penang.”
Her mother ignored her.
Faris ate.
The food was simple. Warm. Comforting.
But his stomach remained tight.
Not because of fear.
Because he knew this morning could shape the rest of his life.
The market was loud in a way that felt alive.
It wasn’t a mall with controlled air-conditioning and polite music.
It was heat, fish smell, damp concrete, voices overlapping in multiple languages, plastic bags rustling like constant applause.
Faris followed Jiawen’s father through the crowd, careful not to lose him.
Jiawen’s father walked like he belonged here. Not rushed, not hesitant, just steady. He greeted stall owners with nods and small words, exchanged quick jokes, inspected vegetables with an expert hand.
Faris kept his hands at his sides.
He felt like a tourist.
Not because anyone stared at him.
Because he was hyper-aware of everything.
The smell of raw fish.
The wetness on the floor.
The way a motorbike somehow threaded through the narrow aisle without hitting anyone.
Jiawen’s father stopped at a fruit stall.
He picked up mangosteens, turned them over, checked the skin.
Faris watched.
“Singapore got this?” Jiawen’s father asked without looking at him.
“Yes, Uncle,” Faris replied.
“Same?”
Faris hesitated. “Not same.”
Jiawen’s father nodded, satisfied, as if this was the correct answer.
He placed the mangosteens into a plastic bag.
Then he turned, gestured toward a small kopitiam at the edge of the market.
“Coffee,” he said.
Faris nodded.
They walked.
The kopitiam was old. Ceiling fans spinning lazily. Tables stained from years of cups sliding across them. A smell of kopi and toast and fried things.
Jiawen’s father chose a table near the side.
Not hidden.
But away from the main noise.
Faris sat.
Jiawen’s father ordered two coffees without asking.
When Faris opened his mouth to correct, Jiawen’s father said calmly, “You can drink coffee, right?”
Faris blinked, then nodded. “Yes, Uncle.”
The coffee arrived.
Black for Jiawen’s father.
Less sweet for Faris.
Jiawen’s father watched Faris take a sip.
Then he leaned back.
And the interrogation began.
Not as an attack.
As an audit.
“You,” Jiawen’s father said, voice low, “you are serious with Jiawen.”
Faris nodded. “Yes, Uncle.”
“You like her?”
Faris paused.
The question was simple.
The weight behind it was not.
“I do,” Faris said.
Jiawen’s father stared at him.
“How much?” he asked.
Faris blinked.
He wasn’t sure how to quantify feelings to a man who looked like he measured life in practical shapes.
Faris chose the only answer that felt honest.
“Enough that I don’t want to waste her time,” he said quietly.
Jiawen’s father’s gaze didn’t change.
“Time,” he repeated.
Faris nodded. “Yes. I don’t want half-measures.”
Jiawen’s father took a sip of coffee.
Then he asked, “Your last relationship?”
Faris’s jaw tightened.
He didn’t want to speak about Amani here.
But he also knew the danger of hiding.
“It ended,” Faris said. “Because she didn’t want commitment.”
Jiawen’s father nodded slowly.
“And now you want commitment,” he said.
Faris held his gaze. “Yes.”
Jiawen’s father watched him for a long moment.
Then he asked the question Faris had been expecting since the temple.
“Religion,” Jiawen’s father said. “You are Muslim. Jiawen is Buddhist. How you see this?”
Faris inhaled.
He felt the heat of the kopitiam air, the hum of fans, the sound of someone shouting an order at the stall. It all faded behind the question.
“I see it as… real,” Faris said carefully. “Not something to ignore. Not something to force.”
Jiawen’s father’s eyes narrowed slightly.
Faris continued, choosing his words like steps on wet floor.
“My faith is part of who I am,” he said. “I pray. I fast. I eat halal. I want a life that respects that.”
Jiawen’s father nodded once.
Faris added, softer, “But I’m not dating Jiawen because I want to change her. I’m dating her because… she’s Jiawen.”
The father’s gaze held him.
“What about marriage?” he asked bluntly.
Faris’s throat tightened.
He didn’t want to jump.
But he also didn’t want to be vague.
“If we reach that stage,” Faris said, “we will talk properly. With both families. With guidance. No rushing. No pressure. I will not ambush her with expectations.”
Jiawen’s father’s brows lifted slightly.
“Guidance?”
Faris nodded. “Counselling. Maybe with someone who understands interfaith realities. Someone neutral. Because I don’t want… assumptions to break us.”
The father stared.
Then he asked, “And children?”
Faris felt his jaw tighten.
He had thought about this.
Not as a fantasy.
As a future that demanded clarity.
“I want children to understand Islam,” Faris said honestly. “Because it’s my faith. But I also don’t want Jiawen to feel erased.”
Jiawen’s father’s eyes narrowed.
Faris continued, carefully, “If we have children, I want them to respect both sides. To know their mother’s heritage. Their festivals. Their grandparents. And I want them to know my faith, my values. We will have to decide how to do that without forcing anyone.”
Jiawen’s father’s gaze sharpened.
“You want them Muslim,” he said.
Faris didn’t flinch.
“I want them to have Islam,” he replied. “Because it’s part of me. But I won’t treat their mother’s world like it’s dirty or wrong. That’s not… fair.”
The father watched him.
There was a long silence.
Faris could hear his own heartbeat.
Then Jiawen’s father spoke again.
“You know,” he said quietly, “Penang aunties always ask convert or not. But for me, I care about something else.”
Faris waited.
“You respect my daughter,” the father said.
Faris nodded.
“And you don’t isolate her,” the father continued. “If you marry, you cannot take her away from her family. She must still come Penang. She must still see her mother. Her father. Her relatives.”
Faris felt a slow relief move through him.
This was not a demand to fight his faith.
It was a demand for dignity.
“Yes, Uncle,” Faris said. “I won’t isolate her. I won’t… cut her off.”
The father nodded.
Then he asked, quieter, “Your parents will accept this?”
Faris hesitated.
“My parents will be cautious,” he said. “But I will speak to them properly. I will not hide Jiawen. I will not pretend she doesn’t exist until it’s convenient. That’s… not fair to her.”
Jiawen’s father’s eyes stayed on him.
“You are close to your parents?” he asked.
Faris nodded. “Yes.”
The father exhaled through his nose.
“Then you must be brave,” he said, as if this was a simple statement.
Faris’s throat tightened.
He nodded. “Yes, Uncle.”
A pause.
Then Jiawen’s father asked, almost casually, “Work. Office. You are senior. You protect her?”
Faris blinked.
He understood the concern.
Not romantic.
Practical.
In the corporate world, people could weaponise optics.
“We have safeguards,” Faris said. “HR is aware. We’re not in the same review chain. We keep boundaries. And Jiawen is… competent. She has her own credibility.”
Jiawen’s father’s gaze sharpened slightly.
“People talk,” he said.
“Yes,” Faris replied. “They do.”
“And you can protect her from talk?”
Faris shook his head slightly. “I can’t control people’s mouths. But I can control our behaviour. I can make sure there’s no truth for them to twist. I can make the workplace boring about us.”
Jiawen’s father’s mouth twitched.
“Boring,” he repeated.
Faris nodded. “Boring is safe.”
Jiawen’s father stared at him for a second.
Then he let out a short sound.
Not quite laughter.
But close.
“You talk like you do audit,” he remarked.
Faris’s ears warmed.
He didn’t deny it.
“It’s how I know how to be responsible,” Faris said.
The father took another sip of coffee.
The silence that followed felt different.
Less sharp.
More thoughtful.
Then Jiawen’s father said quietly, “My daughter… she like to joke. But she is sensitive. She will pretend she is okay when she is not. You know this?”
Faris’s chest tightened.
“Yes, Uncle,” he replied.
The father’s eyes stayed steady.
“If you hurt her,” he said, voice calm, “she will not scream. She will just… become quiet. And she will walk away.”
Faris swallowed.
“I won’t,” he said.
The father’s gaze held him.
“You can’t promise,” he said.
Faris blinked.
Jiawen’s father continued, “You can only choose every day.”
The words landed with strange gentleness.
Faris exhaled slowly.
“Then I will choose,” he said quietly.
The father nodded.
A pause.
Then he stood.
“Okay,” Jiawen’s father said, as if concluding a business meeting.
He placed a few notes on the table.
Faris reached for his wallet immediately.
The father raised a hand.
“No,” he said.
Faris froze.
“Penang,” the father added.
Faris’s ears warmed.
“Yes, Uncle,” he murmured.
They walked back into the market.
Jiawen’s father bought chicken, fish, vegetables.
He didn’t ask Faris to carry anything.
But when they finished, he handed Faris a bag of fruit.
Faris took it.
The fruit bag was heavy.
Not heavy like burden.
Heavy like trust.
When they returned, Jiawen was waiting in the living room with narrowed eyes.
She stood the moment they stepped in.
“Wah,” she said, scanning Faris’ face. “You survived?”
Faris’s mouth twitched. “Yes.”
Jiawen’s gaze flicked to her father. “Pa, you bully him?”
Her father walked past her toward the kitchen, calm. “No. He bully himself.”
Jiawen blinked, then made a face. “What does that mean?”
Her mother emerged from the kitchen, taking the bags from her husband.
“Means Faris think too much,” she declared.
Jiawen stared at Faris.
Faris looked away.
Jiawen’s eyes narrowed. “You told them you’re handsome HR?”
Faris sighed. “No.”
Jiawen leaned closer, whispering. “So how? What did my father say?”
Faris hesitated.
He didn’t want to translate the entire conversation in the living room with her mother within earshot.
So he said quietly, “Later.”
Jiawen groaned. “You’re doing suspense.”
Faris’s mouth twitched.
Jiawen’s mother called from the kitchen. “Jiawen! Come help cut vegetables. Don’t disturb Faris.”
Jiawen rolled her eyes dramatically. “See? I’m labour.”
Her mother replied without looking up. “Yes. Daughter is labour.”
Jiawen huffed and marched into the kitchen.
Faris watched her go.
He felt a strange affection rise.
This was love, too.
Not just romance.
Being absorbed into someone’s ordinary life.
Even the parts that involved being bullied into cutting vegetables.
His phone buzzed.
An email.
From work.
Subject: Bank Compliance Rollout – Steering Committee Follow-up
Faris’s stomach tightened slightly.
Even here, the office found him.
He glanced at the calendar.
They still had another day in Penang.
Then Singapore.
Then HR.
Then his family.
The weight returned.
But the fruit bag in his hand–sticky with mangosteen juice–reminded him that he wasn’t carrying it alone.
That evening, after dinner, Jiawen’s mother made tea.
Not a casual cup.
A tea ritual.
She pulled out small porcelain cups and a teapot that looked like it had been used for years. She set it on the coffee table, arranged fruit on a plate–mangosteen, rambutan, orange slices–then called Jiawen and Faris into the living room.
Jiawen arrived first, wiping her hands on her shorts.
Faris followed.
Jiawen’s father sat in his usual chair, posture relaxed but eyes alert.
Jiawen’s mother sat on the sofa, teapot in hand.
Faris sat opposite them.
Jiawen sat beside him.
The positioning felt deliberate.
Not seating chart.
Choice.
Two seats together.
Faris felt his chest tighten.
Jiawen glanced at him, then at her parents.
“Ma,” she began, voice careful, “you want to talk?”
Her mother poured tea slowly.
“Yes,” she said.
Jiawen’s father didn’t speak.
He let the mother start.
Jiawen’s mother handed Faris a cup.
“Drink,” she said. “Calm.”
Faris nodded. “Thank you, Auntie.”
She handed Jiawen a cup too.
Jiawen took it with both hands, a sign of respect she didn’t usually perform so consciously.
Her mother watched her for a moment.
Then she said softly, “Today your father talk to Faris.”
Jiawen’s eyes widened slightly. “He did.”
Her mother continued, “Now I want to talk to you. Both of you.”
Jiawen nodded.
Her mother’s eyes moved between them.
“You two,” she said carefully, “you are serious. Not play play.”
Jiawen’s mouth tightened. “Ma.”
Her mother lifted a hand. “I know you. You joke. You laugh. But inside you think a lot.”
Jiawen looked down at her tea.
Faris felt his throat tighten.
Her mother turned to Faris.
“Faris,” she said softly, “I can see you are steady. But steady man sometimes also… stubborn.”
Faris blinked.
Jiawen snorted under her breath.
Her mother shot her a look. “You also stubborn.”
Jiawen shut up.
Her mother’s gaze returned to Faris.
“I ask you,” she said gently, “you can accept our family? We are Buddhist. We go temple. We do Qing Ming. We burn incense. You okay?”
Faris inhaled.
He had expected this question, but hearing it phrased with such sincerity made it heavier.
“I respect,” Faris said carefully. “I might not participate in rituals that go against my faith. But I can be present. I can show respect. I can… stand with Jiawen.”
Jiawen’s mother nodded slowly.
She turned to Jiawen.
“And you,” she asked, “you can accept his family? Muslim family. Prayer. Ramadan. Halal. Maybe… different lifestyle.”
Jiawen’s throat moved.
“Yes,” she said softly. “I can accept. I already do. I’m learning. But I don’t want to be forced.”
Her mother nodded.
Then she asked the question that made Jiawen’s fingers tighten around her cup.
“Marriage,” her mother said quietly.
The room held its breath.
Faris felt Jiawen’s shoulder shift slightly beside him.
Jiawen’s father finally spoke.
“Not now,” he said.
Jiawen’s mother glanced at him.
Jiawen’s father continued, voice calm. “But we must talk about future. Because if serious, future will come.”
Faris nodded.
Jiawen swallowed.
Her mother’s eyes softened.
“I am not asking you to marry tomorrow,” she said. “But I need to know you both understand what serious means.”
Jiawen’s mouth tightened. “Ma, I know.”
Her mother’s gaze stayed steady.
“Serious means you don’t waste time,” she said. “Serious means you don’t hide. Serious means you don’t hurt.”
Faris felt his throat tighten.
Then Jiawen’s mother looked at Faris.
“In your religion,” she said carefully, “if you want to marry… must convert?”
Jiawen’s fingers went still.
Faris didn’t flinch.
He glanced at Jiawen first.
Door deal.
He didn’t answer for her.
But he could answer for himself.
“In Islam,” Faris said softly, “a Muslim man is allowed to marry a woman from the People of the Book. Buddhist is different. It becomes… complicated. Some families insist conversion. Some scholars have different views. But I don’t want to treat conversion like a checkbox. Faith is not… paperwork.”
Jiawen’s mother’s eyes widened slightly.
Faris continued, voice steady, “If Jiawen ever chooses to learn Islam, it must be because she wants. Not because I pressure. Not because my family demands. And if she never chooses, we have to be honest about what that means for marriage. We cannot pretend it’s simple.”
Jiawen stared at him, surprised by the openness.
Her father nodded slowly.
Her mother exhaled.
“Okay,” Jiawen’s mother said, quieter. “Then you are honest.”
Jiawen swallowed.
Then she spoke.
“I’m Buddhist,” she said, voice steady, “but I’m not… very ritual type. I respect my family. I go temple with them. I do Qing Ming. It’s culture. It’s love. But I also… I’m not attached to rituals the way my aunties are.”
Her mother’s eyes softened.
Jiawen continued, “If I ever choose Islam, I want it to be because I understand. Not because I’m scared to lose Faris.”
Faris’s chest tightened.
He looked at her.
Jiawen’s voice shook slightly but stayed firm.
“And if I don’t,” she added, “I don’t want to be punished. I don’t want to be treated like… a problem.”
Her mother nodded slowly.
Her father’s gaze stayed steady.
Then Jiawen’s father spoke.
“Faris,” he said, voice calm, “you hear what she say.”
Faris nodded. “Yes, Uncle.”
Jiawen’s father’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“You can promise?”
Faris swallowed.
He thought of the kopitiam conversation.
You can’t promise. You can only choose.
So he answered truthfully.
“I can choose,” Faris said quietly. “Every day. To respect her. To not pressure. To not make her small.”
Jiawen’s father nodded.
Jiawen’s mother looked at Jiawen, then at Faris.
“You know,” she said softly, “I always think love is easy when you are young. You just like. You just hold hand. But when you become adult, love is… work.”
Jiawen groaned softly. “Ma, why you so philosophical.”
Her mother ignored her.
“Work is not bad,” the mother continued, eyes steady. “Work means you choose. Work means you don’t run when difficult.”
Faris felt his throat tighten.
He nodded.
Her mother smiled faintly.
“Okay,” she said.
A small word.
But it landed.
Jiawen blinked.
Her father looked at her.
“You also,” he said. “If you choose him, you choose properly. You cannot be half. You cannot use him to hide from your own problems.”
Jiawen’s cheeks warmed. “Pa.”
Her father’s gaze softened a fraction.
“I know you,” he said quietly.
Jiawen looked down.
Then she nodded.
“Yes,” she whispered.
The tea cups sat between them like quiet witnesses.
Faris felt the weight in his chest shift.
Not removed.
Aligned.
Then Jiawen’s mother asked, almost casually, “His mother in Singapore… she know?”
Jiawen’s breath caught.
Faris’s jaw tightened.
He answered honestly.
“She knows Jiawen exists,” he said. “But she hasn’t… met her yet.”
Jiawen’s mother’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“She will ask many questions,” the mother said.
Jiawen muttered, “Everyone will ask many questions.”
Her mother smacked her knee lightly. “Respect.”
Jiawen sighed. “Yes.”
Her mother looked at Faris.
“You will bring Jiawen to meet your family?” she asked.
Faris nodded. “Yes, Auntie.”
“And you will not hide her,” the mother pressed.
Faris’s throat tightened.
“I won’t,” he said quietly.
Her father’s gaze held him.
“Then,” Jiawen’s father said, voice calm, “next step.”
Faris blinked.
The father continued, “When you go back Singapore, you arrange. She meet your family properly.”
Jiawen’s eyes widened.
Faris felt his stomach tighten.
It wasn’t fear.
It was the weight of commitment becoming real.
“Yes, Uncle,” Faris said.
Jiawen’s mother nodded.
“And you,” she said to Jiawen, “you also bring him back Penang again. Not only when trouble. When happy also.”
Jiawen’s mouth trembled into a smile.
“Okay,” she murmured.
Her mother smiled faintly.
Then she reached forward and placed a slice of orange into Faris’ small plate.
“Eat,” she said, as if feeding could seal agreement.
Faris obeyed.
The orange was sweet.
Juice ran down his fingers.
He wiped it with the handkerchief without thinking.
Jiawen watched him, eyes soft.
Her mother noticed too.
“What is that?” her mother asked.
Jiawen groaned. “Here we go.”
Faris froze.
Jiawen’s mother leaned forward. “Handkerchief?”
Faris nodded. “Yes, Auntie.”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed slightly with curiosity.
Jiawen muttered, “He has a relationship with that handkerchief.”
Faris shot her a look.
Jiawen’s father’s mouth twitched.
Jiawen’s mother smiled slowly.
“Good,” she said, surprisingly. “Man who keep handkerchief… he is prepared.”
Jiawen stared. “Ma, how that logic?”
Her mother shrugged. “Prepared means steady.”
Jiawen groaned again.
Faris felt his ears warm.
Even here, in serious conversation, romcom found a way to breathe.
Later, after the tea cups were cleared and Jiawen’s parents retreated to their bedroom with the quiet efficiency of people who had decided the conversation was done, Jiawen pulled Faris onto the balcony.
Penang night was humid and soft.
The city below glowed with warm streetlights, motorbikes threading through darkness, voices drifting up from somewhere as if someone was always laughing.
Jiawen leaned on the railing.
Faris stood beside her.
This time, she didn’t bother with the careful distance.
She let her shoulder rest against his arm.
He didn’t move away.
For a moment, they just breathed.
Then Jiawen whispered, “My mother likes your handkerchief.”
Faris’s mouth twitched. “I noticed.”
Jiawen turned her head slightly, eyes gleaming with humour. “She thinks it means you’re prepared. Like you bring tissue so you will be good husband.”
Faris stared. “That’s… not how it works.”
Jiawen grinned. “In Penang, everything can become superstition.”
Faris let out a quiet laugh.
The laughter faded.
Jiawen’s expression softened.
“My father,” she said quietly.
Faris looked at her.
Jiawen swallowed. “When he said… don’t isolate me… I didn’t realise that was my fear until he said it.”
Faris’s chest tightened.
“I won’t,” he said.
Jiawen looked at him.
She didn’t smile.
She just watched him like she was trying to store the sincerity.
Then she whispered, “Thank you.”
Faris exhaled.
“I’m not… perfect,” he admitted quietly. “I will think too much. I will plan too much. I will get stressed.”
Jiawen’s mouth twitched. “True.”
Faris shot her a look.
Jiawen laughed softly.
Faris continued, voice softer, “But I won’t make you small. I won’t make you disappear. If I have to fight someone, I fight my own family expectations first. Not you.”
Jiawen’s throat moved.
Her eyes glistened slightly.
“Wah,” she whispered. “You sound very… main character.”
Faris’s mouth twitched. “Don’t.”
Jiawen smiled faintly.
Then she grew quiet.
Faris watched her.
“Are you okay?” he asked anyway.
Jiawen exhaled slowly.
“I’m okay,” she said, then corrected herself, “I’m… calmer.”
Faris nodded.
Jiawen’s fingers moved on the railing, tracing the metal edge.
Then she said softly, “My parents said… next step.”
Faris’s stomach tightened.
“Yes,” he replied.
Jiawen turned to him.
“And you,” she said, voice quiet, “are you ready?”
Faris hesitated.
He thought of his mother.
Her careful politeness.
Her caution.
Her love that sometimes expressed itself as control.
He thought of HR.
Of the follow-up check-in.
Of office optics.
Then he thought of Jiawen.
On a balcony in Penang, eyes soft and honest.
He nodded.
“Yes,” he said.
Jiawen’s gaze softened further.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Faris reached into his pocket and pulled out the handkerchief.
Jiawen blinked. “What now?”
Faris unfolded it carefully.
Not to wipe anything.
Just to hold it between them.
A small white square in the night.
Faris looked at it, then at her.
“This,” he said quietly, “was originally for comfort.”
Jiawen’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Now it’s for what?”
Faris hesitated.
He didn’t want to say too much.
Not yet.
But he also didn’t want to hide the truth he was starting to carry.
“Now,” Faris said softly, “it’s a reminder that we keep choosing.”
Jiawen stared at him.
Then her mouth trembled into a smile.
“You’re becoming poetic,” she whispered.
Faris’s ears warmed. “Don’t bully.”
Jiawen laughed softly.
She reached for the handkerchief, fingers brushing his.
This time, she didn’t just take it.
She folded it neatly, then placed it back into his palm.
A return.
A quiet exchange.
Faris’s throat tightened.
Jiawen leaned closer, voice softer.
“When you bring me to meet your mother,” she whispered, “I might be scared.”
Faris nodded.
Jiawen continued, “But I won’t hide. I won’t shrink. Door deal.”
Faris’s chest warmed.
“Door deal,” he echoed.
Jiawen’s smile softened.
Then, unexpectedly, she asked, “Can I hold your hand?”
Faris blinked.
It was such a simple request.
In Singapore, it would have been normal.
In Penang, on a balcony outside her parents’ living room, it felt like a confession.
Faris glanced toward the sliding door.
Light spilled out.
His instinct screamed caution.
But his other instinct–newer, steadier–answered first.
“Yes,” he said.
Jiawen slid her hand into his.
Her fingers were warm.
Slightly damp from humidity.
Real.
Faris’s hand closed around hers.
Not tight.
Just steady.
They stood like that for a moment, watching the night.
Then Jiawen whispered, half amused, half tender, “If my mother sees, she will say you are prepared husband because you hold hand properly.”
Faris let out a quiet laugh.
Jiawen leaned her head lightly against his shoulder.
Faris felt something settle in his chest.
Not certainty.
Not the fantasy kind.
The kind that came from alignment.
Inside, his phone buzzed again.
Work.
An email reminder.
A calendar invite.
He didn’t check.
Not now.
Because right now, he could hear Jiawen breathing.
He could feel her hand in his.
He could feel the weight of her parents’ quiet “okay” sitting behind the walls.
The world would demand structure again soon.
His mother.
HR.
Office.
But for tonight, the hardest conversation in Penang had been said.
Junhao had been shut out.
The future had been named without being forced.
And both of them had stayed standing.
Faris stared out at the dark street.
Two seats.
Together.
Not because someone assigned them.
Because they chose.
And as Jiawen’s fingers tightened lightly around his, Faris let himself admit, privately, that he was already thinking ahead.
Not in a tracker.
Not in an SOP.
In something smaller.
Harder.
A decision that would one day be made in front of witnesses.
Properly.
He didn’t know the exact date.
But he knew the direction.
Next step.
Singapore.
His mother.
And a seat at his family’s table that Jiawen would not have to beg for.
He would reserve it.