Practice Date

By midnight, the rain had softened from a roar into a steady tapping that made the window feel alive.

Rafi lay on his bed in Bayview Residences–Block C, Cobalt–staring at the ceiling as though the pattern of tiny cracks in the paint might rearrange itself into an answer. The room smelled faintly of detergent and the cheap lemon disinfectant the cleaners used in the hallway. His laptop sat open on his desk, a half-finished incident-response write-up glaring at him like an accusation.

He should have been working.

He had said yes to Mika Nakamura’s request like it was a business decision, and business decisions did not, in theory, follow him into bed.

But his phone kept lighting up.

It was face down on his mattress–his only attempt at discipline–but the glow still pressed through the sheets, pulsing like a small alarm.

A message from Priya:

if you hurt her i will destroy your bloodline (jk) (not jk)

A second message arrived before he could even blink.

also pls tell her to stop replying to her mom like a hostage. she needs proof. TAKE HER OUT. make it believable.

Rafi closed his eyes.

He could still feel Juniper Café’s air-conditioning on his skin. The damp weight of his umbrella after he set it on their table. The way Mika’s fingers had rested on the handle–not taking, just touching–as if the object itself was a doorway she was afraid to step through.

He rolled onto his side and grabbed the phone.

The StamfordSpills post was still live. In fact, it had grown.

The comments had evolved from laughing emojis into speculation, as all crowds did when you let them.

Isn’t that Chloe Lim?

Rafi Tan always acting atas then now kena played…

He looks like he can’t breathe lol

Wait I saw him talking to a Japanese girl at the atrium just now???

Rafi’s stomach tightened.

Someone had replied with a blurry photo–two silhouettes near the glass doors, framed by rain. It wasn’t clear enough to identify Mika’s face, but the posture was unmistakable: a man standing too still, a girl facing him with her chin lifted, the shape of proximity.

The caption read:

new girl??

Rafi swore under his breath.

He had spent years training himself to separate signal from noise, threat from distraction. He had learned to observe without reacting.

But this wasn’t a system he could harden.

It was people.

People were the worst kind of vulnerability.

His phone buzzed again.

A message from an unknown number.

Chloe: You’re really going to pretend I don’t exist?

Rafi stared.

His thumb hovered.

He didn’t reply.

Not because he was trying to be cruel.

Because any reply became material.

Because Chloe knew how to turn words into weapons.

He dropped the phone back onto the bed and sat up, elbows on his knees.

Across the room, his umbrella leaned against the wall like a shadow.

He thought of Dr. Koh’s voice.

Stability.

He thought of Mika’s voice.

I need to look… stable.

The word meant something different in each mouth.

For him, it meant donors and committees and a future that didn’t collapse because someone else chose a story about him.

For her, it meant parents and oceans and the tight grip of expectations that treated independence like a temporary illness.

Rafi swallowed.

A rational person would have walked away.

A rational person would have said, Not my problem.

But he wasn’t in the habit of letting people drown when he had an umbrella.

He opened his notes app again.

FAKE DATING – TERMS

He reread the lines as if he’d find a loophole.

Exit clause: Either party can end at any time. No questions asked.

He exhaled slowly.

Fine.

If he was going to do this, he would do it properly.

His phone lit up once more.

This time, it was Mika.

A single message.

I posted.

Rafi’s heart gave a stupid, traitorous jump.

He told himself it was adrenaline.

He told himself he was reacting to the idea of their “proof” being out in the world.

He tapped into the notification.

Mika’s Instagram story appeared: the photo they had taken in Juniper, rain-blurred window behind them. She had added a minimal caption in English:

Rainy day.

And in Japanese beneath it:

今日は助けてもらった。

Rafi didn’t need to understand Japanese to feel the softness of it.

He recognized the shape of gratitude.

He imagined her mother screenshotting it.

He imagined her father staring at it like evidence.

Rafi’s chest tightened.

He typed a reply, deleted it, typed again.

Finally, he sent:

Okay. Keep it simple.

Three dots appeared.

Then disappeared.

Then appeared again.

Mika replied:

Thank you. Goodnight, Rafi.

His name.

Not Rafael.

Not Tan.

Not “Rafi Tan, Cyber Defense Society VP” the way people said it like a title.

Just Rafi.

He stared at the screen longer than necessary.

Then he set the phone down and reached for his laptop.

The incident-response document waited.

He wrote two paragraphs.

He deleted them.

His mind kept drifting toward Juniper Café, toward the damp umbrella on the table, toward the strange weight of having agreed to be someone’s shelter.

When he finally slept, it was shallow. Rain threaded through his dreams like a repeating motif, and in each dream he held an umbrella that was never big enough.

The next morning, the sky was clear in a way that felt fake.

Sunlight poured through Bayview’s corridor windows with almost offensive cheer, drying yesterday’s puddles into faint stains. The air smelled of wet grass warming under heat. Somewhere downstairs, a group of international students laughed loudly, their voices ricocheting off concrete like birds.

Rafi showered quickly, dressed in a pale blue button-up and dark slacks, and slung his backpack over his shoulder. His spare umbrella was already inside–habit. Routine. The only kind of safety he trusted.

He checked StamfordSpills while waiting for the lift.

The post about him and Chloe had been buried under newer chaos–freshmen drama, someone’s lost AirPods, a blurry shot of two people holding hands that could have been anyone.

But there was a new comment under yesterday’s thread:

Okay nvm he got new girl already. Japanese.

Rafi’s mouth tightened.

At the lobby, his phone buzzed.

Mika:

Priya says we should “practice date.”

Rafi blinked.

Another message followed immediately.

Is it too much?

Rafi stared at the words.

He could picture Mika typing it–polite even in text, as if she might be inconveniencing him by existing.

He typed back:

What does she mean by practice?

Mika replied:

Something normal. Food. Groceries. Not romantic. Just… believable.

Believable.

Rafi’s jaw clenched.

He knew how this worked. In cybersecurity, the most convincing attacks were never the flashy ones. They were the small ones, the ones that looked like routine. Familiar emails. Ordinary requests.

Believability wasn’t built by grand gestures.

It was built by mundane consistency.

His phone buzzed again.

Priya, this time, as if she had been waiting for his response like a predator.

TAKE HER TO A HAWKER CENTRE.

then supermarket. then take 1 pic. make it like you do this all the time.

also she will pretend to hate kaya toast but she will eat it. i can feel it.

Rafi stared.

He should have been annoyed.

He was, slightly.

But he also recognized something else–something inconvenient.

Relief.

A plan meant structure.

Structure meant control.

He typed back to Mika.

Okay. Today after your class?

The reply came instantly.

I’m free at 12. Juniper?

Rafi hesitated.

Juniper Café was too close to yesterday’s agreement, too close to the moment his life had quietly shifted.

So he replied:

Makan Court. 12.

A pause.

Then:

Okay.

Rafi pocketed his phone.

He stepped out into the sun.

He told himself he was doing this for containment.

He told himself he was doing this to bury StamfordSpills under a more stable story.

He told himself he was doing this because it was rational.

And he tried not to think about the part of him that had said yes too quickly.

Makan Court at noon was a humid orchestra.

The scent hit first: fried garlic, broth steam, sweet soy, the faint sharpness of chili oil. The air-conditioning fought bravely against the heat that rolled in every time the doors opened. Trays clattered. People called out orders. A stall auntie yelled “Next!” with the authority of a judge.

Rafi arrived five minutes early, because he always arrived early. He scanned the seating area, chose a table near a pillar where he could see the entrance and the stalls, and sat down with his bag placed neatly beside him.

He waited.

He didn’t check his phone.

He watched.

A group of international students huddled around a map, pointing with chopsticks. A freshman couple laughed too loudly over iced Milo. Two seniors discussed internship applications with the soft desperation of people who had realized grades weren’t the only currency.

Then Mika appeared.

She stepped into the food hall like someone entering a room that could judge her.

She wore a simple university outfit–white blouse, light cardigan draped over her shoulders, dark trousers that made her look more put-together than most people in Makan Court deserved. Her tote bag hung from her shoulder. Her hair fell loose and glossy, framing her face.

When she spotted him, her expression softened.

Not a wide smile.

Just something small, controlled.

But it changed her face.

Rafi felt the shift like weather.

He stood–not because he was trying to impress anyone, but because it seemed like the correct thing to do.

“Mika,” he said.

“Rafi,” she replied.

She hesitated for a fraction of a second, as if deciding whether to sit opposite him or beside him.

Opposite meant distance.

Beside meant intimacy.

Mika chose opposite.

Rafi noted it without comment.

“Priya is… dramatic,” Mika said, setting her tote on the seat beside her.

Rafi’s mouth twitched. “She threatened my bloodline.”

Mika’s eyes widened, then she covered her mouth with one hand, laughter escaping softly.

“She said that?”

“She said she was joking.” Rafi paused. “Then she said she wasn’t joking.”

Mika laughed again, and the sound loosened something in the air between them.

It made them look–if anyone was watching–like two people who already had shared jokes.

Rafi didn’t like that his mind noticed.

He cleared his throat.

“So,” he said. “Hawker centre. Supermarket.”

Mika nodded quickly, grateful for structure.

“Yes. Something normal.”

Rafi glanced at the stalls.

“What do you eat?” he asked.

Mika blinked. “Here?”

“Anywhere,” he corrected.

Mika’s fingers fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve. “I… usually eat at Bayview. Instant ramen.”

Rafi’s brows knit.

“Every day?”

Mika’s cheeks warmed. “Not every day. Only… often.”

Rafi’s chest tightened.

Instant ramen wasn’t a crime.

But he imagined her alone in the Bayview kitchen late at night, kettle boiling, the smell of sodium and loneliness.

He didn’t like the picture.

“We’ll eat properly,” he said.

Mika stared at him.

The words had slipped out too firm.

He adjusted, quieter. “For… believability.”

Mika’s lips pressed together, hiding a smile.

“Okay,” she said.

Rafi stood.

“Order first?” he asked.

Mika hesitated. “I don’t know what to choose.”

Rafi nodded.

He should have expected that.

“Come,” he said.

He walked toward the stalls.

Mika followed, half a step behind.

Rafi felt the same near-brush of proximity as yesterday, his body registering warmth without permission.

He ignored it.

They stopped at the chicken rice stall.

The stall auntie looked at them with the sharp gaze of someone who had seen thousands of couples, thousands of breakups, thousands of small dramas over food.

“Two?” she asked.

“Yes,” Rafi replied.

“Chicken rice?”

Rafi glanced at Mika.

Mika’s eyes widened slightly. “Is it spicy?”

The auntie laughed like Mika had said something cute. “Not spicy. Chili on the side.”

Mika nodded, relieved.

Rafi ordered for both of them–one steamed, one roast–because ordering was easier than negotiating. He paid before Mika could protest.

Mika opened her mouth.

“It’s fine,” Rafi said.

Mika’s brows drew together. “I can pay.”

Rafi’s voice stayed calm. “You can pay next time.”

Next time.

The phrase hung between them.

Mika’s cheeks flushed faintly.

“Okay,” she said, soft.

They waited for their trays.

Rafi felt eyes on them.

Not everyone’s.

But enough.

A few glances lingered. A few people recognized him, perhaps, from the rumor page, from Cyber Defense Society, from the way campus ecosystems always seemed to know who mattered.

Mika must have felt it too. Her posture stiffened slightly, like a person being observed.

Rafi shifted.

Not touching her.

Just stepping closer enough that his shoulder created a quiet barrier.

It was instinct.

Mika’s gaze flicked to him.

Her expression softened, just for a second.

Then the trays arrived.

They carried their food back to the table.

Rafi sat down, unwrapped his cutlery, and watched as Mika stared at the plate like it might judge her.

“You can eat,” he said.

Mika blinked. “I know.”

Rafi’s mouth twitched.

She picked up her spoon and fork with careful hands.

She took a small bite.

Her eyes widened.

“It’s… good,” she admitted, as if surprised.

Rafi nodded once, pleased despite himself.

“Add chili,” he suggested.

Mika’s eyes narrowed. “You said not spicy.”

“I said chili on the side,” Rafi corrected.

Mika leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret.

“I’m Japanese,” she said. “I can eat wasabi. But chili is different.”

Rafi snorted quietly.

Mika’s gaze sharpened.

“You’re laughing,” she accused.

“I’m not,” Rafi lied.

Mika’s lips pressed together.

Then, with a kind of quiet defiance, she dipped her spoon into the chili.

She took a bite.

For two seconds, she held her composure.

Then her eyes watered.

Rafi watched.

He didn’t laugh.

Not openly.

But something in his chest loosened.

Mika reached for her iced tea quickly.

Rafi slid a packet of tissue across the table.

Mika dabbed her eyes, cheeks flushed.

“This is not funny,” she said, voice tight.

Rafi’s expression stayed calm.

“Your face is red,” he observed.

Mika glared.

Rafi took a sip of water, hiding the faint curve of his mouth.

Mika leaned back.

“You’re cruel,” she said.

Rafi shook his head. “You did it to yourself.”

Mika narrowed her eyes, then abruptly reached across the table and slid his chili packet closer to him.

“Then you eat more,” she said.

Rafi paused.

Mika’s gaze held his.

It was playful.

But beneath it was something else: a test.

Rafi took the chili packet and poured a little onto his rice.

He ate it without flinching.

Mika watched, unimpressed.

“You’re used to this,” she said.

“Singapore,” Rafi replied.

Mika huffed softly.

Then she took another small bite of chili, careful this time.

Her eyes still watered.

But she didn’t surrender.

Rafi watched her.

He didn’t know why he liked the stubbornness.

He told himself he didn’t.

After lunch, they walked out of Makan Court into sunlight bright enough to make the world feel washed clean.

The storm had left behind humidity that clung to skin. The campus smelled of damp leaves and warmed concrete.

Rafi glanced at Mika.

“Albert Centre,” he said, as if announcing a mission.

Mika nodded.

They crossed the campus toward the MRT.

The Skybridge Walkway shimmered with leftover rain, droplets trapped on the glass like tiny beads. Students passed them in clusters, and Rafi felt the subtle pressure of being observed again.

Mika walked beside him now, not behind.

Still not touching.

But closer.

As they descended into the MRT station, the air turned cooler, metallic.

Mika’s gaze flicked around.

“You know where to go,” she said.

Rafi nodded. “Yes.”

Mika hesitated, then asked quietly, “Do you… hate this?”

Rafi looked at her.

Her expression was careful, as if she didn’t want to be a burden.

Rafi exhaled.

He could have lied.

He could have said no.

But he had already agreed to the lie that mattered.

“Not hate,” he said. “Just… not used to being… seen.”

Mika’s eyes softened.

“I understand,” she said.

The MRT arrived with a rush of wind.

They stepped inside.

It was crowded, but not suffocating.

Rafi positioned himself near the pole.

Mika stood beside him.

The train swayed.

Mika’s shoulder brushed his arm.

This time, she didn’t move away immediately.

Rafi’s fingers tightened around the pole.

He stared at the station names flashing by, forcing his mind to focus on anything that wasn’t the warmth of proximity.

Bugis.

City Hall.

Bras Basah.

Albert Centre was only a short walk from the station.

When they emerged into the street, sunlight reflected off wet pavement. The city felt alive–cars gliding past, pedestrians weaving, the smell of fried food drifting from somewhere unseen.

Albert Centre hawker was louder than campus.

It had its own ecosystem–office workers, aunties with shopping bags, students looking for cheap meals, tourists who hovered uncertainly.

Mika’s eyes widened slightly.

“This is… different,” she murmured.

Rafi nodded. “More real.”

Mika looked at him.

Rafi realized what he’d said.

He corrected quickly. “More… Singapore.”

Mika’s lips curved faintly.

They moved through the hawker centre.

Rafi guided her with small gestures–hand hovering near her back when crowds tightened, shoulder angled to block a man pushing a trolley too fast.

He didn’t touch her.

But his body moved as if he was responsible for her space.

Mika noticed.

She didn’t comment.

They stopped at a stall selling kaya toast.

Mika stared at the menu.

“Kaya,” she read aloud softly.

Rafi nodded.

Mika’s brows knit. “It’s… coconut?”

“Coconut jam,” Rafi said. “With butter.”

Mika’s expression turned suspicious.

“That sounds sweet.”

“It is.”

Mika looked at the pictures, then at Rafi.

“People really eat this?” she asked.

Rafi’s mouth twitched. “Yes.”

Mika hesitated.

Then she said, with a dignity that made it funnier, “Okay. I will try. For… believability.”

Rafi nodded solemnly. “For believability.”

They ordered kaya toast and soft-boiled eggs.

When they sat, Mika stared at the eggs like they were a science experiment.

Rafi demonstrated how to crack them gently and mix with soy sauce and pepper.

Mika copied him carefully.

She took a sip.

Her eyes widened.

“This is… good,” she said, again, as if reluctantly admitting Singapore had a point.

Rafi watched her take a bite of kaya toast.

She chewed.

Her expression went blank.

Rafi waited.

Mika swallowed.

“It’s okay,” she said.

Rafi’s brows lifted. “Okay.”

Mika’s cheeks warmed. “Not amazing.”

Rafi leaned back slightly. “You just said it was okay.”

Mika glared. “Okay is not amazing.”

Rafi’s mouth twitched.

Mika narrowed her eyes.

“Why are you smiling,” she accused.

Rafi blinked. “I’m not.”

Mika pointed her toast at him like a weapon.

“You are,” she insisted.

Rafi held her gaze.

Then, to his own surprise, he said, “I like when you’re honest.”

The words slipped out.

They weren’t romantic.

They weren’t even that meaningful.

But they landed.

Mika went still.

Her toast hovered mid-air.

Her eyes searched his face.

Rafi felt the sudden urge to backtrack.

But it was too late.

Mika lowered her toast slowly.

“Thank you,” she said, softer.

Rafi’s throat tightened.

He hated gratitude.

He didn’t know what to do with it.

So he said, “Eat.”

Mika blinked.

Then she laughed, quiet and genuine.

It made her look younger.

It made her look less like a person holding herself together with discipline.

Rafi watched.

He told himself it was good.

Believable.

Normal.

He told himself it meant nothing.

After the hawker centre, they walked to the supermarket.

FairPrice Finest was air-conditioned enough to make Mika’s cardigan look suddenly wise.

The fluorescent lights were unforgiving. The shelves were orderly. The background music was a soft, corporate loop.

Domestic.

Believable.

Rafi grabbed a basket.

Mika followed, scanning the aisles like she was learning a new language.

“I don’t know what to buy,” she admitted.

Rafi’s brows knit.

“What do you usually cook?” he asked.

Mika’s cheeks warmed. “I don’t… cook.”

Rafi stared.

Mika lifted her chin defensively. “I can cook. But… time. And the kitchen is always full. And Priya cooks better.”

Rafi nodded slowly, understanding the shape of it.

It wasn’t inability.

It was exhaustion.

It was a life lived in survival mode.

“Okay,” he said. “We buy basics.”

Mika’s eyes widened slightly. “Like what?”

Rafi started walking.

“Eggs,” he said. “Vegetables. Rice. Things you can make fast.”

Mika followed.

They passed the snack aisle.

Mika stopped.

Rafi turned.

Mika stared at a shelf of Japanese instant noodles.

Her expression softened.

“This one,” she murmured, picking up a cup noodle.

Rafi watched.

For a second, he saw a version of her that wasn’t polished–just a girl with a comfort habit.

Mika noticed his gaze.

Her cheeks flushed.

“It’s good,” she defended.

Rafi nodded. “Okay.”

Mika blinked. “Okay?”

Rafi’s mouth twitched. “Okay is not amazing.”

Mika stared.

Then she laughed, startled.

Rafi felt something loosen.

He didn’t like it.

He also didn’t stop it.

They moved through the aisles.

Mika picked up miso paste.

Rafi picked up sambal.

Mika stared at the sambal jar like it was dangerous.

“Why is it so red,” she asked.

“It’s chili,” Rafi said.

Mika’s eyes narrowed. “Everything is chili for you.”

Rafi shrugged. “Singapore.”

Mika held up her miso paste. “Japan.”

Rafi stared at the miso.

Then he nodded solemnly. “Okay.”

Mika glared, then laughed.

They looked–if anyone was watching–like a couple.

Rafi hated that his mind noticed.

They stopped at the vegetables.

Rafi picked up spinach.

Mika picked up carrots.

“Do you eat vegetables?” Rafi asked.

Mika’s eyes widened in offended disbelief. “Yes.”

Rafi nodded. “Good.”

Mika tilted her head. “You sound like my father.”

Rafi paused.

The words landed heavier than their jokes.

Mika looked away quickly, as if she had revealed too much.

Rafi swallowed.

He didn’t know what to say.

So he said the only thing he could.

“Your father wants you to come back,” he said.

Mika’s fingers tightened around the carrot bag.

“Yes,” she replied softly.

Rafi glanced at her.

Her face was composed again.

But her eyes were tired.

Rafi’s chest tightened.

“Did the story help?” he asked.

Mika blinked. “The Instagram?”

Rafi nodded.

Mika’s lips pressed together.

“My mother replied,” she said. “She said… she was relieved.”

Relieved.

Rafi imagined a mother exhaling across the sea, comforted by a photo.

He felt something complicated in his chest.

“Good,” he said.

Mika looked at him.

There was something in her gaze–gratitude, yes, but also a quiet shame, as if she hated that she needed to use someone like this.

Rafi didn’t like the shame.

He didn’t know why.

He cleared his throat.

“We need one more photo,” he said.

Mika blinked, pulled back into practicality.

“Yes,” she agreed quickly. “A normal one. Not like… couple selfie.”

Rafi nodded.

They stood in the aisle, fluorescent lights making everything too clear.

Rafi looked around.

A staff member restocked shelves nearby.

A family argued softly over cereal.

A cashier laughed at a joke.

Normal.

Believable.

Rafi took out his phone.

Mika’s eyes widened.

“Here?” she asked.

Rafi nodded. “Why not.”

Mika hesitated.

Then she stepped closer.

Not too close.

But close enough.

Rafi angled the phone.

A simple shot: them standing in front of the vegetable aisle, Mika holding carrots, Rafi holding spinach, both looking mildly amused.

A domestic joke.

A future.

The shutter clicked.

Mika stared at the photo.

Her lips curved softly.

“It looks… natural,” she said.

Rafi’s throat tightened.

Natural.

He nodded once.

“Okay,” he replied.

Mika’s eyes narrowed. “Okay?”

Rafi met her gaze.

Then, quietly, he said, “It’s good.”

Mika’s cheeks warmed.

She looked away.

Rafi stared at the basket.

He didn’t like the way small compliments felt like stepping onto thin ice.

They checked out.

Rafi paid again before Mika could protest, because it was easier, because it fit the story, because it made him feel responsible in a way that was familiar.

Mika argued softly anyway.

“You always pay,” she said.

Rafi shrugged. “You can pay next time.”

Next time again.

Mika’s gaze lingered.

“Okay,” she said, voice quiet.

They walked out of the supermarket into the afternoon.

The air was thick with heat.

Clouds had gathered again, heavy and dark at the edges.

Rafi glanced up.

“Rain later,” he predicted.

Mika followed his gaze.

She squinted at the sky like it was an enemy.

“I don’t like rain,” she admitted.

Rafi blinked. “But you posted rain.”

Mika’s cheeks warmed. “That’s different. Rain on Instagram is… romantic. Rain on my hair is… disaster.”

Rafi’s mouth twitched.

They walked toward the MRT.

Mika carried a small bag of groceries.

Rafi carried the heavier one.

It looked–again, annoyingly–like a couple.

People glanced at them, not long enough to be rude, but long enough to register.

Rafi’s phone buzzed.

He glanced.

A notification.

Mika had posted the supermarket photo.

Caption:

Grocery run.

In Japanese beneath:

買い出し。

Simple.

Normal.

Believable.

Rafi’s chest tightened.

He didn’t know why seeing his life on someone else’s story felt like stepping into public water.

But it did.

Mika caught his glance.

“Is it okay?” she asked quietly.

Rafi nodded.

“Yes,” he said.

He meant it.

And that scared him a little.

By the time they reached Bugis, the sky had decided to punish the city again.

The first drops hit like warnings.

Then the rain came–hard and sudden, turning the street into a shimmering skin.

People scrambled toward shelter.

Mika’s eyes widened.

“Ah–” she breathed.

Rafi reached into his backpack automatically.

Umbrella.

His fingers found the handle.

He flicked it open.

The canopy bloomed above them.

He angled it toward Mika without thinking.

Mika stepped under quickly.

Then she froze.

Her gaze dropped to her tote bag.

She rummaged.

Her brows knit.

She rummaged again, faster.

Rafi watched.

Mika’s cheeks flushed.

“My umbrella…” she murmured.

Rafi blinked. “You brought one?”

Mika’s lashes lowered.

“I did,” she said softly.

Then, almost too quickly, she added, “I think I left it in my room.”

Rafi stared.

He could tell when someone was lying.

Not because he was dramatic.

Because he paid attention.

Mika’s lie wasn’t malicious.

It was… intentional.

A quiet choice.

A way to accept shelter without asking directly.

Rafi’s chest tightened.

He didn’t call her out.

He simply shifted closer so the umbrella covered her fully.

Mika’s shoulder brushed his arm.

This time, she didn’t move away.

Rain hammered the umbrella fabric.

The world outside the canopy blurred.

They stood at the edge of the Bugis Underpass entrance, neon reflections pooling on wet ground, the smell of rain mixing with street food.

Mika looked up at him.

Her eyes were soft.

“Thank you,” she said.

Rafi’s jaw tightened.

He didn’t know what to do with gratitude.

So he said, “You’re welcome.”

The words felt unfamiliar.

Like he was saying something he didn’t usually allow himself to say.

Mika’s fingers hovered.

Then she reached for the umbrella handle.

Not taking.

Just touching.

Her fingertips brushed his.

Electricity–small, sharp, immediate.

Rafi’s stomach tightened.

He didn’t move.

He let her fingers settle.

Rain fell around them like a curtain.

The underpass lights glowed warm against the grey.

For a second, the city felt far away.

Then a voice cut through.

“Mika-chan?”

Mika stiffened.

Her fingers tightened on the umbrella handle.

Rafi’s gaze lifted.

Haruka Satō stood a few steps away under the shelter, holding a pastel umbrella of her own. Two other Japanese students hovered behind her, their expressions curious.

Haruka’s eyes moved from Mika’s face to the umbrella to Rafi’s proximity.

Then her lips curved into a smile that was polite, sharp, and deeply interested.

“Oh,” Haruka said, drawing the word out like a ribbon. “So you weren’t alone.”

Mika’s cheeks flushed.

She opened her mouth.

No sound came.

Haruka stepped closer, heels tapping lightly on wet concrete.

Her gaze landed on Rafi.

“You’re Rafael Tan,” she said, as if confirming a fact. “Cyber Defense Society.”

Rafi nodded once.

Haruka’s smile widened.

Then she looked back at Mika.

“Boyfriend?” Haruka asked, voice bright and casual–like it was just small talk.

But her eyes didn’t blink.

They waited.

Mika’s hand remained on the umbrella handle.

Rafi felt the weight of the rain above them.

He felt the weight of the story.

And he realized, with a clarity that made his chest tighten, that this was the first real test.

Not a photo.

Not a post.

A person.

A gaze.

A question that demanded an answer.

Under the umbrella, Mika inhaled.

Rafi didn’t look away.