Hidayah woke at 5.10am.
The room was still dark, quiet in a way that felt intentional rather than empty. She lay there for a moment, eyes open, letting the last threads of sleep fall away before she moved.
She rose, padded into the bathroom, and turned on the shower.
Warm water washed over her shoulders, steady and grounding. The faint soreness from the week—archery on Friday, silat sessions that lingered in her muscles—slowly eased as she stood there, breathing evenly.
Afterward came ablution.
Hands. Face. Arms.
Then she laid out her prayer mat.
This was the part of the day that always anchored her. No matter how her life had shifted—no matter how abruptly it had once ended—this remained unchanged. As she prayed, the sky outside her window lightened, the darkness thinning into something gentle.
When she finished, she checked the time.
Still early.
Perfect.
She changed into her jogging clothes, tied her hair back neatly, slipped on her running shoes, and reached for her phone.
A message was already waiting.
Khairul: I'm downstairs.
A small smile curved her lips.
He was stretching lightly near the void deck when she stepped out, dressed simply—dark track pants, a plain t-shirt, running shoes that had clearly seen regular use. No excess. No display.
"Morning," she said.
"Morning," he replied, straightening. "You ready?"
"Been up since five," she said. "You?"
"Same."
That alone told her enough.
They started jogging side by side, their pace falling into sync almost immediately. Neither pushed. Neither lagged. Just steady footsteps on quiet pavements, the air cool and clean before the sun fully rose.
Yishun was calm at this hour.
A few early joggers passed them. An uncle swept the corridor outside his flat. Somewhere, a radio played softly.
"You run often?" Khairul asked after a while.
"Enough," she replied. "It keeps me balanced."
"Balanced how?"
She considered the question. "Silat demands explosiveness. Archery demands stillness. Running keeps everything… balanced."
He nodded slowly. "That makes sense."
He noticed things as they ran.
Her breathing—controlled.
Her posture—upright, relaxed.
Her steps—economical, no wasted movement.
She wasn't showing off.
She was simply trained.
"You don't run like most people," he said.
She glanced at him sideways. "That good or bad?"
"Efficient," he replied. "Disciplined."
"I'll take that."
They slowed naturally as Yishun SAFRA came into view, easing into a walk. Sweat clung lightly at her temples, but she looked composed, unhurried.
"You hungry?" he asked.
"Starving."
"Good."
McDonald's was warm and familiar inside.
They ordered easily, like this wasn't their first shared routine. Coffee for him. Breakfast set for her. She drank water first before touching her food—another small habit he clocked without comment.
They chose a seat by the window. For a while, they ate in silence.
Not awkward. Not strained.
Just comfortable.
"This is nice," Khairul said eventually.
She looked up. "Jogging or breakfast?"
"Both," he answered. "But mostly the company."
She smiled faintly. "Yeah. It is."
They talked after that.
About training. About discipline. About how difficult it was to truly rest when your body was used to being pushed. She spoke about silat with quiet respect, about archery with careful precision. No exaggeration. No dramatics.
At one point, her phone buzzed. She glanced at it briefly, then turned it face down on the table.
Khairul noticed the movement.
Didn't ask.
Instead, he said, "You're very… steady."
She raised an eyebrow. "That's the second time you've said something like that."
"It's an observation."
"From the job?"
"Partly," he admitted. "But mostly from experience."
She studied him for a moment, thoughtful. "You notice details."
He met her gaze evenly. "So do you."
Sunlight filtered fully through the windows now, warming the table between them.
Outside, the carpark had begun to fill. Morning had arrived properly. As they stood to leave, Khairul felt a quiet certainty settle in his chest.
This wasn't rushed.
This wasn't accidental.
Jogging side by side had felt natural. Breakfast had felt easy.
And that—more than intensity, more than attraction—was what made this dangerous.
Because this was the kind of thing that slipped into routines.
And routines were hard to break.