Farhan hated the way the city lights blurred past at night when she was in the passenger seat. Not because driving bored him—he liked driving—but because every time she laughed at something stupid he said or pulled out her phone to text friends, he felt a flicker of…something. Something he wasn’t supposed to feel.

Her apartment building came into view first. The bubble tea shop near the corner glowed like a neon warning sign. He slowed the car, watching her casually glance at her reflection in the window. Reina didn’t realize it, but Farhan was always scanning the streets, counting exits, calculating escape routes.

“You don’t have to—” she started, reaching for the car door.

He cut her off with a look sharp enough to make her pause.

“Yes, you do. Get out safely,” he said, voice calm, clipped, but carrying the weight of someone who’d seen death and decided he wouldn’t wait around for it to visit again.

It had started a week ago. After she nearly got snatched—her father’s rivals making a bold, stupid play to get at him through her—Farhan had drawn a line. She wasn’t allowed to walk anywhere alone anymore. Anywhere. Bubble tea runs. Library trips. Even meeting friends on campus.

At first, she had protested, rolled her eyes, and laughed like it was some joke. But she didn’t get it. He wasn’t joking. And he was patient enough to let her learn that lesson slowly, the way predators taught their prey without a fight—through absolute, undeniable control.

“You’re overreacting,” she’d said one night, tossing her scarf onto the couch of the apartment they now shared. “It’s just a group hangout. I’ve been fine for weeks.”

Farhan had tilted his head, studying her. Modern hijab, perfectly styled, accessories just enough to make a statement but not too loud—so many girls on campus envied her, and yet here she was, oblivious to the danger that stalked her like a shadow.

“You’re popular,” he said quietly. “They’ll see you. They’ll follow. And I won’t let that happen again.”

She scoffed but didn’t argue. Not really. There was something in the way he said it—calm, final, like he had already calculated every possible outcome of her disobedience.

Driving her everywhere became routine. Bubble tea runs where he didn’t just wait in the car—he stayed, watching her smile as she sipped and chatted with the cashier. Walks to the library where he’d casually loop his hand near hers, a silent barrier against any stray threats. Even trips to meet friends ended with him standing on the edges, careful, alert.

Sometimes she would tease, leaning back in her seat and nudging him with her shoulder.

“You’re ridiculous. I’m not a kid.”

He didn’t smile. Not yet.

“No. You’re not,” he said. “But I’m not taking chances.”

And when the night fell and he parked outside her apartment, watching her walk to the door, he felt a rare flicker of relief. She was safe. Again.

But beneath it, something darker, something warmer, coiled. Possession. Protection. A dangerous mix that neither of them would admit out loud, because admitting it meant losing control—and Farhan didn’t lose.

Not now. Not ever.