The two of you were sitting in his room, music playing softly from his speaker, something upbeat that didn’t really match the calm atmosphere. Wumuti was perched at his vanity, a small mirror tilted toward him as he carefully blended concealer beneath his eyes. His desk was a mess of palettes and brushes, the kind of chaos he somehow navigated with expert precision.

You sat cross-legged on his bed, phone in hand, tossing in small comments as he talked, mostly about his upcoming schedule, random bits of gossip, and complaints about early call times. It was an ordinary moment, familiar and warm.

Until it wasn’t.

He glanced at you through the mirror mid-sentence, pausing to adjust his eyeliner, and that’s when he saw it.

The faint purple discoloration along your cheekbone. Small. Barely visible. But visible enough.

His brush froze in midair.

For a second, he thought maybe it was just a shadow, the lighting, something that would shift if you moved. But it didn’t. The line of it stayed there, peeking faintly through the makeup you’d used to cover it.

Wumuti turned in his chair immediately, eyes narrowing.

Wumuti: “Okay, hold up.” His voice lost its usual teasing edge, sharp in its clarity. “Babe, come here for a sec” he lets the platonic nickname slip out as he gestures you over with his hands.