Love In Malaysia

The stranger stood between her and the rain, tall enough that the awning’s dripping edge struck his shoulder instead of her face. His white shirt was already damp at the collar. Water ran from his black hair onto his brow, but he seemed more concerned with the torn leather strap than with himself.

“Don’t pull,” he said. “It will rip.”

“I know.”

His eyes lifted to hers. Dark, steady, not offended. “You were pulling.”

Aina released the strap. “I was trying to get it back.”

“That is usually how people pull things.”

The remark was so dry that, despite herself, she almost smiled. Almost.

He crouched beside the trolley, working the strap loose from the wheel. The crowded walkway pressed around them, a tide of perfume, wet fabric, and hot oil from the nearby street stalls. Someone brushed Aina’s elbow. She stepped closer to the wall, and the stranger shifted without looking, placing his body between her and the flow of people.

The gesture was small. It made her notice him more than she wanted to.

“Can you lift the bag?” he asked.

“I can manage.”

“I didn’t ask if you could.”

His fingers freed the strap. Aina snatched the bag from him and examined the damage. The leather had split near the buckle, the stitching hanging like loose thread from a wound.

“Wonderful,” she muttered.

“Still usable.”

“It was supposed to be my one nice thing tonight.”

He glanced at her blouse, then at the empty space beyond her shoulder where the restaurant’s golden sign glowed through the rain.

“Dinner cancelled?”

Aina stiffened. “Why?”

“Because you look like someone who dressed for dinner and is now deciding whether disappointment is worth getting wet for.”

That was too accurate. She tucked the broken strap beneath her arm. “You make a habit of studying strangers?”

“No. You are standing in front of me.”

“And you make a habit of correcting them?”

“Only when they’re about to lose their bag.”

The rain battered the corrugated awning. Aina’s phone vibrated again. This time it was a message from her older sister.

Text me when you’re on the train. Don’t take a Grab alone if the roads flood.

Aina typed, I’m leaving now, though she had not yet decided how.

The stranger noticed the phone but did not ask. That restraint unsettled her more than curiosity would have. Men who helped her in the city often expected something in return - a smile, a name, a number. He had not asked for any of them.

“Which way?” he said.

“Bukit Nanas station.”

He looked toward the street. The rain had thickened until the buildings across the road became pale shapes behind a silver curtain.

“Walkway is crowded but dry. Follow it past the mall, then cut left.”

“I know Kuala Lumpur.”

“I didn’t say you didn’t.”

“You were about to.”

“I was about to say the crossing is flooded.”

Aina looked. He was right. Water had spread across the road in a brown sheet, swallowing the painted lines. Cars pushed through it, throwing waves against the curb.

“I can wait,” she said.

“For how long?”

“As long as it takes.”

The stranger tilted his head. “That sounds less like a plan and more like surrender.”

She disliked him then. Or disliked the way he made her feel seen while knowing nothing about her.

“I don’t need rescuing.”

His expression changed - not wounded, exactly, but careful. “Good. I’m not rescuing you.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“Trying to get to the same station without watching you lose your bag, your shoes, or your patience.”

Aina looked down at her heels. Rainwater had already soaked through the thin leather. Her toes were cold. She had spent the last hour pretending the evening had not collapsed, pretending she could still move through the city as if nothing had changed.

The stranger extended a folded black umbrella.

“Take this.”

She stared at it. “What about you?”

“I have a jacket.”

“That isn’t an umbrella.”

“It is if I stand under it badly.”

A laugh escaped her before she could stop it. His mouth curved in response, and the brief warmth between them felt more dangerous than the rain.

“No,” she said. “I’ll manage.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.”

“Then prove it by taking the umbrella.”

He held it out without stepping closer. Aina noticed the faint scar along his knuckle, the silver watch at his wrist, the clean scent of rain and cedar soap beneath the city’s fried garlic and petrol fumes.

She took the umbrella.

Their fingers touched.

It was nothing. A brief contact, skin against skin. Still, the stranger’s gaze dropped to their hands before returning to her face, and Aina felt the moment settle somewhere neither of them named.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Zafir.”

She waited.

He gave her a questioning look. “My name.”

“Oh.” She adjusted her grip on the umbrella. “Aina.”

“Aina,” he repeated, not carelessly. The sound of her name in his voice made her aware of the rain sliding down her neck.

They stepped into the covered walkway together.

The crowd forced them close. A family carrying plastic bags moved in front of them, a group of tourists stopped beneath a bright advertisement, and a street vendor called out over the storm. Zafir walked on the outer side, taking the knocks from shoulders and umbrellas. Whenever the path narrowed, his hand hovered near Aina’s back without touching.

At the first puddle, she misjudged its depth. Her heel sank, and she lurched.

Zafir caught her elbow.

“Careful.”

“I’m fine.”

“You are very committed to that sentence.”

“I’m committed to not falling in front of a stranger.”

“You’ve already fallen into my route.”

Aina turned to him. “What does that mean?”

His hand remained around her elbow for one second too long. He released her immediately.

“It means we’re walking in the same direction.”

“Does it?”

“Does what?”

“Does it mean anything else?”

The question came out sharper than she intended. His gaze held hers, and for the first time his calm slipped. Beneath it was caution, perhaps amusement, perhaps something she was too tired to identify.

“You tell me,” he said.

Aina looked away. That was the trouble with men who spoke softly. They left room for a woman to fill in the meaning, then could deny every interpretation later.

She had learned that lesson from someone who promised he was not ready for a relationship while asking her to wait like a faithful wife.

Zafir pointed ahead. “The street stalls are less crowded on the other side. We can cross there.”

“We?”

“If you prefer, I can walk three metres behind you and shout directions.”

“That might be safer.”

“For you or for me?”

She glanced at him. He was smiling now, but his eyes were watchful.

“For my peace of mind.”

“Then I’ll stay beside you.”

The walkway opened toward the stalls, where steam rose from pots of noodles and skewers browned over charcoal. Rain drummed on the temporary plastic roofs. The smell of grilled chicken, sweet soy, and wet pavement wrapped around them.

Aina’s stomach tightened with hunger. She had skipped lunch to finish a proposal for work, then spent the afternoon looking forward to a dinner that no longer existed.

Zafir noticed.

“There’s a stall ahead,” he said. “You can wait there until the rain eases.”

“I need to get home.”

“You can do both. Eat while waiting.”

“I’m not eating with a stranger.”

“I wasn’t inviting myself.”

The rebuke was mild, but it landed. Aina looked at him properly. His shirt clung to his shoulders; a dark line of rain traced the side of his face. He had helped her without making a performance of it, and she had answered every kindness as if it hid a trap.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

He did not rush to forgive her. “For which part?”

“For assuming.”

“Assuming what?”

“That you wanted something.”

His expression went still.

Around them, a vendor shouted an order. Oil crackled. A bus groaned through the flooded road, and the sound seemed to pull the city farther away.

Zafir folded his arms. “Do you usually assume that?”

“When a man insists on helping.”

“I didn’t insist.”

“You followed me.”

“I was walking to the station.”

“You gave me your umbrella.”

“You were wet.”

“You keep answering everything literally.”

“Maybe you keep asking questions you don’t want answered.”

The words struck harder than they should have. Aina tightened her hold on the umbrella.

“I don’t have time for this.”

“Neither do I.”

“Then go.”

He looked at her for a long moment. Rainwater dripped from the umbrella’s edge between them.

Aina expected him to leave. She almost wanted him to, because the relief would be simpler than the disappointment.

Instead, he said, “You’re afraid of owing people.”

Her throat tightened.

“That’s not your business.”

“No.”

“And you don’t know anything about me.”

“No.”

“Then stop talking as if you do.”

His jaw shifted. The first real anger she had seen in him made him look less composed, more human.

“My sister was stranded in this area last month,” he said. “A man offered her a ride, then spent the whole journey reminding her what she owed him. She had to call me from a petrol station.”

Aina’s grip loosened.

Zafir looked toward the rain. “So no, I don’t know you. But I know why you’re watching every hand that reaches for you.”

The words opened a quiet place inside her. She thought of the last message from Faris, the one that had arrived after three weeks of silence: You misunderstood what we were.

She had not misunderstood. She had simply believed what he gave her.

“I don’t want to be foolish again,” she said.

Zafir’s face softened, though he did not step closer. “That isn’t foolish.”

“It feels like it.”

“Then perhaps you should stop letting careless people define the word.”

Aina looked at him. The rain had blurred the lights behind his head into floating gold. For one suspended moment, the crowded walkway seemed to narrow around them.

“Are you always this irritating?” she asked.

“Only when I’m trying to be helpful.”

“You’re failing.”

“Yet you’re still holding my umbrella.”

She looked down at it. “You gave it to me.”

“Exactly.”

Her laugh came quietly this time. Zafir smiled, and the warmth between them returned - not easy, not safe, but real enough to make her want to stay beneath it.

The rain eased after another ten minutes. Not stopped, merely softened into a steady curtain. Aina checked her phone and opened the ride-hailing app. The fare was high, but the train line had stalled because of flooding.

“I’ll book a car,” she said.

Zafir nodded. “Good.”

She expected him to ask for her number then. He did not.

The car estimate climbed again.

“Your face says the app has insulted your family,” he said.

“It wants nearly three times the normal fare.”

“Surge pricing.”

“I know what it is.”

“I can wait with you.”

Aina looked at him. “You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

The answer left her with no defence.

A car finally accepted the booking. The driver’s name appeared, along with a notice that pickup would be at the hotel entrance across the road.

Zafir glanced at the message. “That entrance is difficult in this rain. I’ll walk you there.”

“You’ll get wetter.”

“I’m already wet.”

“You have a strange approach to self-preservation.”

“Occupational hazard.”

“What occupation?”

He paused, then reached into his pocket for his phone. “Before I answer that, give me your number.”

Aina’s suspicion returned so quickly it embarrassed her.

“Why?”

“So I can send you the station route if the driver cancels.”

“You can send it to me how?”

“Good point.”

He held out the phone, screen unlocked. “Or don’t. I’m asking, not assuming.”

The distinction mattered. Aina entered her number.

His phone rang in his hand. He saved her name, then looked up.

“Now you have mine,” he said.

She checked her screen. A new contact appeared: Zafirul Rahman.

The full name felt oddly formal after the way he had said hers.

At the hotel entrance, the rain had weakened to a mist. Zafir opened the umbrella over her as they crossed the slick pavement, his shoulder brushing hers. The contact was still open on her phone.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For the umbrella?”

“For not making me feel stupid.”

He stopped beneath the hotel’s bright canopy. “You did that yourself.”

Aina gave him a look.

He smiled. “You’re welcome.”

Her car pulled up. Before she could open the door, Zafir’s phone vibrated. He glanced at the screen, and his expression changed.

“What?” she asked.

He turned the phone toward her.

An email notification showed the logo of the company where she worked: Meridian Events Malaysia.

The subject line read: Kuala Lumpur Heritage Gala - Vendor Coordination Meeting, Monday, 9:00 a.m.

Beneath it, the sender’s name was visible.

Zafirul Rahman - Rahman Heritage Catering.

Aina stared at the screen, then at him.

“You work with Meridian?” he asked.

“I do.”

His gaze dropped to the broken strap of her bag, then returned to her face. The easy warmth between them tightened into something more complicated.

“I’m catering your event,” he said.

The driver called her name from the car.

Aina stepped inside, still holding his umbrella. Zafir reached for it, but she did not let go immediately.

“Monday,” she said.

“Monday.”

“Don’t mistake this for an invitation.”

His eyes held hers through the open door. “I wouldn’t dare.”

She released the umbrella and pulled the door shut.

As the car moved away from Bukit Bintang, Aina watched Zafir disappear beneath the hotel lights, his phone still in his hand, her name newly saved inside it.

She had wanted only to get home safely.

Instead, she had given a stranger her number - and would have to face him again before she had decided whether meeting him had been a mistake.

End of chapter one. 4 more chapters in the full book.