We're at each other's throats for a couple of minutes until he finally succumbs to my demands and leaves the office that consumed his soul. We stop at level 6 for my essentials before making our way out of the premise.

"Do you want me to escort you to your car, Your Highness?" he asks sarcastically inside the elevator.

"I'm taking the LRT, trying to catch the last train before 12.00," I reply.

"I'll drop you off at home then," he offers after a deliberate pause.

"No, thank you. I still can make it to the station before they pull down the shutter," I decline. "Otherwise, I'll Uber."

"Taking a public ride home with complete strangers in the middle of the night? Idiot," he says scornfully. "Do you still live with your parents like a typical single Malay girl?"

"Yes, but I don't need your charity," I say heatedly. "I'm capable of getting my way home."

"I'm not asking for your approval," he insists. "And I'm capable of hauling you to the vehicle effortlessly."

Either his guilty conscience kicks in or I'm just too tired to argue, but I eventually agree to let myself be chauffeured back home. I follow him to the basement where his army green Jeep Wrangler Rubicon awaits. I note that other than his intransigent attitude, he also hasn't given up his fan boy obsession for Star Wars when I spot 'Vader on Board' car decal sticking by the corner of the vehicle's rear window as we draw near.

Stoned songs by Post Malone, Travis Scott, Migos and artists of similar genre play on shuffle mode though his Kenwood car audio, occupy the silence throughout the drive. We're a mile away from Bangsar Square where TWIB head office is located as we cruise into the city centre, enjoying the less congested roads. I react to the silence by admiring the emancipated nightlife through the window with my thoughts marvel through its magnificence.

"So, is it something that you want to talk about?" Saint suddenly asks.

"Do I want to talk about something?" I gasp, evoking our earlier conversation.

"Are you having an early dementia?" he snickers. "What happened to becoming a wife at 25?"

"Oh, that one," I withdraw my breath to answer, "I don't know. It's either I got busy or I'm out of luck."

"Hmm," his short response is like withholding a deliberative opinion as he rolls down his window and draws out a cigarette from the red Marlboro packet with his lips. "You mind if I smoke a fag?"

"Go ahead," I shrug in approval.

He lights up the cigarette and takes the first puff, eyes fixed on the road and on the dashboard. I tilt my head to the side, feeling it'd be appropriate to take a few moments to observe this beautifully structured form of a man whom I once chaperoned home from school. His manifest charm secretly astounds me by how he'd grown to become quite exquisite. Despite it being past office hours, his shirt remains uncrumpled with minimal traces of creases.

My eyes dart towards the window when Saint catches me studying him. He chuckles at my sudden recoil as he flickers off the cigarette ashes outside the window.

"Do you intend to just sit there and ogle at me?" he asks cynically.

"Well, what do you want to talk about?" I respond, try to act casual.

"How's things with you? How's your mom?"

"Well, I lead a normal, dull life since the last time we met, if that's what you're asking about," I reply unenthusiastically. "And my mom's been doing fine as always. She still asks about you out of blue or on occasions where I failed to bring home a decent man for Dad's approval."

"Does she know I'm with Islamic?" he asks.

"Yes, she knows we're colleagues now, and she wouldn't shut up about it," I groan, thinking of Mom's constant pestering me to reunite with Saint. "But I thought you're not in for a reconnection. I'm just a 'fucked up past' to you."

"Please don't take it to heart. I don't mean things I said when I'm upset," he chuckles in between the smoke that draws out from his nostril.

"And I can tell that you've moved on," I recover the conversation from going bitter.

He carelessly tosses the burnt cigarette filter outside the window when it finishes before rolls up the screen. "How so?"

"You and Anita are like a pair of fairy unicorn couple. It's like a match made in heaven," I compliment.

Saint frowns at my hypothetical comparison. "Please don't talk bullshit."

I ignore his condemnation. "Remember that time at KLGCC where she popped in for a surprise visit? I saw the way you two look at each other, such chemistry."

"How quaint. Perhaps we are," he shrugs and abruptly changes the topic. "Do you still keep in touch with Maia?"

I pause, trying to catch up with the pace of this conversation, "Maia died years ago. She suffered some internal organ malfunction, an after effect from her dad's old beatings."

Saint shakes his head and clicks his tongue bitterly to the news. "I really miss her, though. She's a better babysitter than you."

"She is," I concede to his sarcasm. "There are a lot of things we need to catch up on, especially on you. Like how's your college life? How did you and Anita first meet?"

How do you turn out to be this hot? I say quietly to myself.

"What happened to that sissy looking guy whom you had a crush on?"

"Which sissy looking guy?" I'm baffled by his unexpected inquiry.

"That guy from St. Paul, your so-called Tom Welling look alike," he elaborates.

Saint's effort of diverting the conversation is clearly implicating that he's avoiding Anita at all cost. Perhaps he's still upset about sleeping alone tonight. So, I decide to just roll with it.

"You mean Hardy? Apparently, he married my sister," I respond dejectedly. "I don't feel like talking about him."

"Oh, okay," Saint's cagey tone turns calm. "Anyone else?"

"What are you getting out of this?"

"Just because," he beams, oblivious to my grunting. "I'm dead curious. How can a pretty middle-aged frump like you doesn't have anyone to go steady with?"

I try to contain myself from slapping his clean-shaven face to avoid any road mishaps while he's driving. "There are but either they see me as a drive thru or just didn't make it through the cut. I've one steady ex-boyfriend which my Dad rejected for being too young."

"Younger than you? Isn't that against your principle? How about your other older boyfriends? None checks your Dad's list?"

"I have no older boyfriends. All of them are younger than me," I finally admit.

"Haha! Damn!" he unleashes his mirth. "Sorry, I didn't mean to. That's very rude of me but I can't help it - Haha!"

His hysterical laughter drowns out our quiet conversation, mocks at my failure. I note that it is not just ordinary laughter, it's a victorious tease screaming, "Serves you right for friendzoned me."

"Shut up, just shut up!" I slap his toned forearm and he flinches in reflex. As the whacking grows intense, a flush of humiliation plastered across my face.

"If it's any consolation to you, you made a fine cougar. You just have to wait 'till your cub's done with high school. Hahaha! You just made my day," he wipes off the tears from his eyes.

From that point on, I instantly regret accepting a ride home after knowing that we ended up having a conversation where Saint would use this opportunity to ridicule me.

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Photo source - Amber Rose's Instagram