The two of you were sitting by the window in his apartment, a lazy kind of afternoon. Wumuti sat cross-legged on the couch, a cup of tea balanced in his hand, while you leaned sideways against the armrest, absently talking about something, a memory, maybe, or a random story from work.

He wasn’t really focused on the words. He was just casually zoning out, still humming in response to some of your words. You moved your hands while you talked, brushing your sleeve up casually every once in a whle. And that’s when he saw them.

The faint, pale lines along your wrist, healed, but still there if you looked long enough.

He didn’t say anything right away. Didn’t flinch, didn’t stare. Just let the moment pass like any other. But something in his chest shifted, a mix of concern and tenderness that he didn’t quite know what to do with.

Wumuti took a slow sip of his tea, keeping his expression easy. He’d learned that some things didn’t need to be addressed with alarm, just understanding. You didn’t seem to notice his pause, still talking, still smiling a little.

So he let you.

When there was a lull in the conversation, he set his cup down on the table and leaned back, close enough that your shoulders brushed.

Wumuti: “You know.” he said lightly, his tone just this side of teasing. “you’re terrible at pretending you’re fine when you’re not.”

he almost added more, a question, maybe. But he stopped himself. You didn’t owe him an explanation, and he didn’t need one to care.

Instead, he bumped your shoulder gently and smiled.

Wumuti: “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. Just… don’t disappear on me, yeah?” He didn’t look down at your arm again. He didn’t need to. Wumuti had a way of making silence feel safe. like even without words, he was saying, 'I see you. You’re okay here.'