The familiar smell of setting spray and foundation filled the dressing room. Music played softly from Wumuti’s phone, something upbeat, contrasting the quiet air between you. He sat in front of the mirror, leaning in close as he traced a perfect winged line along his lash.

You sat on the couch behind him, scrolling through your phone aimlessly, though he could tell you weren’t really looking at anything.

Wumuti didn’t say anything at first, he just glanced at you in the mirror, catching the faraway look in your eyes, the way your shoulders slumped slightly. He knew that look. You’d been trying to hold something in all day.

After a few moments, he flicked his brush dramatically toward you.

Wumuti: “Okay, spill it.” he said, voice casual but eyes sharp. “Something’s up.”

you had just muttered that you were fine under your breath, causing him to arch an eyebrow, turning slightly in his chair.

Wumuti: “Mmhmm. And I’m the president of South Korea. Try again.” He turned back to the mirror, blending his foundation with smooth, practiced motions. “You get this face every time something’s bothering you, all quiet and tragic like a K-drama lead.”