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The mornings always belonged to Muti.
She woke up early, not because she had to, but because she liked the quiet before the day became loud. Sunlight crept through thin curtains and painted her room in soft gold, catching on the clutter of hair clips, ribbons, and half-finished craft projects scattered across her desk. Muti sat on the edge of her bed, still sleepy, deciding what kind of person she wanted to be today.
Today felt like pink.
Her hair—dyed a gentle purple that leaned more lavender in the light—was carefully styled into low pigtails, secured with tiny plastic clips shaped like flowers. She hummed as she worked, swaying slightly, checking herself in the mirror with a satisfied nod. There was joy in the ritual. Muti treated getting ready like play, like self-expression rather than obligation.
Her outfit followed the same rule. A soft cardigan, oversized and cozy. A skirt that swished when she moved. Fingerless gloves because they were cute, not because they were practical. Everything about her look was intentional, even if it appeared effortless.
By the time she stepped into her classroom, she was already smiling.
The kindergarten erupted the moment she arrived. Small voices called her name, tiny hands tugged at her sleeves, children eager to show her drawings, their new shoes, the bugs they’d found outside. Muti knelt down without hesitation, eyes level with theirs, listening like every word mattered—because to her, it did.
She laughed loudly. She praised often. She turned lessons into games and mistakes into encouragement. Glitter ended up everywhere. So did stickers. Parents watched from the doorway with relief, knowing their children were safe with someone so warm, so patient, so endlessly kind.
To the children, Muti was magic. To the world, she was sunshine in human form.
And when the day ended, she left with paint on her sleeves and a smile that never quite faded.
Meanwhile, at the other end of the city, the morning unfolded very differently.
Wumuti had been awake for an hour already.
Her apartment was quiet, immaculate. No clutter. No unnecessary decoration. Everything had its place, and everything was where it belonged. She stood in front of the mirror, long hair pulled back neatly, adjusting her glasses with practiced precision. Her expression was calm, composed—already focused on the day ahead.
Her wardrobe was a study in restraint. Clean lines. Neutral colors. A coat tailored perfectly to her frame. There was no hesitation in her movements, no second-guessing. Wumuti didn’t dress to be noticed; she dressed to be respected.
By the time she arrived on campus, students were already bracing themselves.
Her heels echoed down the hallway, sharp and deliberate. She entered the lecture hall exactly on time, setting her bag down with care before turning to face the room. Silence fell almost immediately. Everyone knew better than to test her patience.
Wumuti lectured with clarity and authority, her words precise, her expectations unmistakable. She didn’t tolerate distractions. She didn’t accept excuses. Papers were graded thoroughly, feedback exacting, standards uncompromising.
To her students, she was intimidating. To her colleagues, she was formidable. To herself, she was simply doing her job correctly.
Her office reflected her perfectly—organized shelves, neatly stacked books, a desk free of clutter. No personal photos. No distractions. Just focus, discipline, and control.
Two women, living in the same city.
One surrounded by finger paint and laughter. The other by lecture halls and rigid expectations.
One ruled by color and warmth. The other by structure and precision.
—
The mall was loud in the way only late afternoons could be.
Music bled from every store entrance, overlapping into a messy hum. The air smelled like sugar and perfume and something fried. Families wandered aimlessly, teenagers clustered around escalators, and somewhere nearby, a child was crying with the dedication of someone who had just been told no for the first time.
Muti loved it.
She walked through the craft store with a small bounce in her step, tote bag swinging against her hip. Her day had been long but good—too good, actually. One of her kids had drawn a picture for her, complete with crooked hearts and her name written backwards, and she’d promised she’d laminate it so it wouldn’t get ruined.
Except she’d forgotten something.
She stopped short in the aisle, eyes scanning the shelves.
“Oh,” Muti murmured. “No, no, no.”
Markers. Specifically, a thick black permanent marker. The kind perfect for laminating labels and bold lines and fixing tiny classroom disasters. She crouched down, reaching toward the rack—and froze.
There was only one left.
At the exact same moment, another hand reached for it.
Long fingers. Pale. Confident.
Muti’s head snapped up.
Wumuti had already seen the marker first. She had already calculated that it was the correct size and brand. She had already reached for it with the intention of checking out within five minutes and leaving this overcrowded mall behind her.
And then—someone touched it at the same time she did.
Her jaw tightened immediately.
“I need that,” Wumuti said, voice sharp, clipped, already irritated before she’d even fully turned.
Muti blinked.
She straightened slowly, still holding the other end of the marker, eyes wide in surprise. “I—um. I saw it first.”
That was a lie. They both knew it.
Wumuti finally looked at her properly.
Purple hair. Soft cardigan. Big eyes. Slight pout already forming on her lips like she was gearing up to look tragically wronged. Muti tightened her grip on the marker, shoulders drawing in defensively.
“There’s only one,” Muti added, quieter now, lips pushed out just a little more. “And I really need it.”
The pout was unintentional. It always was.
Wumuti exhaled through her nose, patience thinning by the second. “So do I.”
She tugged on the marker.
Muti tugged back.
For a brief, ridiculous moment, they stood there locked in a silent standoff in the middle of a craft store aisle, surrounded by glitter glue and foam stickers.
Muti was about to argue again—she could already feel the childish whine bubbling up—when she actually looked at the woman in front of her.
Really looked.
Tall. Long hair pulled back neatly. Glasses sitting perfectly on her face. Sharp eyes. Sharp cheekbones. The kind of attractive that didn’t try to be cute, didn’t soften itself for anyone. Clean. Controlled.
Oh.
Muti’s pout faltered.
Her grip loosened just a little, eyes flicking up and down before she could stop herself. Damn. She hadn’t expected that. She swallowed, suddenly aware of how close they were standing, how her hand was still touching the same marker as this very, very attractive stranger.
Wumuti noticed.
Of course she did.
She noticed the hesitation, the way Muti’s expression shifted, the way her eyes lingered a second too long. It only made her irritation spike higher. She hated crowds. She hated inefficiency. And she especially hated being delayed over something this trivial.
“Are you letting go,” Wumuti said coolly, “or are we going to stand here all day?”
Muti flushed.
“No,” she blurted, then cringed internally. She adjusted her grip, chin lifting stubbornly. “I just—look, I work with kids. If I don’t have this marker, my entire afternoon is ruined.”
Wumuti’s eyebrow twitched.
“That’s unfortunate,” she replied flatly. “But I’m not rearranging my schedule because you forgot to plan ahead.”
That stung.
Muti’s pout came back full force this time, genuine now. “Wow. You’re mean.”
“I’m realistic.”
“You’re mean and realistic.”
Wumuti yanked the marker out of Muti’s hand before she could react.
Muti gasped softly, offended, staring at her empty fingers like she’d just been personally betrayed. “Hey!”
Wumuti didn’t even look sorry. She turned away already, irritation radiating off her in waves. “Next time, grab it faster.”
Muti stood there, stunned, cheeks warm, heart beating just a little too fast.
Rude. Unfair. Extremely attractive.
She watched Wumuti walk away—posture straight, steps precise, completely unbothered—before muttering under her breath, “Unbelievable.”
At the checkout line, Wumuti was still annoyed.
The mall was too loud. The line was too slow. And for reasons she refused to examine too closely, she couldn’t get the image of that ridiculous pout out of her head.
She paid, took the marker, and left without looking back.
That night, Muti was still annoyed.
She lay on her bed on her stomach, feet kicking idly in the air, phone pressed tight to her ear as if Rui might escape if she loosened her grip. The room was dim except for her bedside lamp, casting everything in a warm glow that did absolutely nothing to calm her down.
“Rui,” Muti said again, voice thick with outrage, “I am not exaggerating. She was genuinely the rudest person I’ve met this month.”
On the other end, Rui was curled up at Hyun’s apartment, comfortably tucked against his side on the couch. She had one of his hoodies on, sleeves too long, phone on speaker between them. She listened patiently, already smiling because she knew this rant was nowhere near finished.
“You said that about the barista last week,” Rui pointed out.
“That was different,” Muti argued immediately. “The barista spelled my name wrong on purpose.”
Hyun hummed, amused, but stayed quiet.
“This woman,” Muti continued, sitting up now, clearly getting into it, “she didn’t even hesitate. No ‘sorry,’ no ‘oh, you need it too?’ Nothing. Just this look—like I was an inconvenience. Like the universe had personally offended her by putting me in her path.”
Rui laughed softly. “You’re very dramatic.”
“Because it was dramatic,” Muti shot back. “We grabbed it at the same time, Rui. At the same time. That’s legally shared custody for five seconds at least.”
Hyun snorted.
“And she tugged it,” Muti said, scandalized all over again. “Like, firmly. Confidently. As if she’s never lost an argument in her life. I almost tripped because I wasn’t expecting it.”
“You almost fell over a marker?” Rui teased.
“That’s not the point,” Muti said. “The point is she looked at me like she was already tired of me. Like she’d decided I was inefficient.”
She rolled onto her back, staring up at the ceiling, frowning.
“And her outfit,” Muti went on, gesturing vaguely with her free hand even though no one could see. “So put together. Dark colors. Clean lines. Not a wrinkle anywhere. The kind of clothes that say ‘I wake up early and I’m better than you.’”
Rui raised an eyebrow. Hyun leaned closer, interested now.
“She had long red hair,” Muti added, quieter, like she hadn’t meant to say it out loud. “Really long. Like it just… fell down her back. Not messy. Not soft-looking. Sharp. Everything about her was sharp. Even her hair looked like it could judge me.”
“That’s a talent,” Rui said dryly.
“And don’t get me started on her face,” Muti groaned. “Glasses. Serious expression. She barely blinked at me. Just took the marker and walked off like she’d won.”
She turned onto her side, hugging her pillow tightly.
“I know I shouldn’t care,” Muti muttered, “but I do. Because she didn’t even look back. Not once. Like I wasn’t even worth a second thought.”
There was a pause.
Rui smiled knowingly. Hyun tilted his head, watching Rui’s expression.
Then Hyun spoke up, tone light, teasing.
“Noona,” he said, “are you complaining about the marker… or about how attractive the stranger was?”
Muti froze.
“…Excuse me?”
Her ears burned instantly. She flipped onto her stomach again and shoved her face into the pillow, muffling her groan. “That’s not—why would you say it like that.”
Rui burst out laughing, full and unrestrained.
“Oh my god,” Rui said. “You are.”
“I am not,” Muti protested weakly, though her voice was already giving her away. She pouted hard, lips pushed out in a way that would’ve been devastating if anyone could see it. “She was just… noticeable.”
Hyun smiled. “That’s worse.”
Muti sighed, defeated. She lifted her head, staring at nothing. “She was tall. Long red hair. Glasses. Wore this really structured outfit—like a vest and slacks, really formal. Looked like she walked out of a law firm or something.”
Rui’s laughter slowly faded.
“…Red hair?” Rui repeated.
“Yes.”
“And glasses.”
“Yes.”
“And looks like she hates inefficiency,” Hyun added.
Muti blinked. “Yes?”
Rui winced.
“Yikes,” Rui said.
Muti sat up fully now. “What do you mean yikes.”
“That sounds exactly like Wumuti,” Rui said carefully. “Haru’s professor.”
Silence.
Muti stared at the wall.
“…Haru?” she echoed. “Your Haru?”
Rui nodded even though Muti couldn’t see it. “The strict one. Everyone’s terrified of her. The red-haired professor who dresses like she’s always on her way to a meeting.”
Hyun nodded. “She once deducted points because a title was half a centimeter off.”
Muti let out a slow, disbelieving laugh.
“You’re telling me,” she said softly, “I fought over a marker with that woman.”
Rui smiled. “Sounds like it.”
Muti flopped back onto her bed, arm thrown dramatically over her eyes.
“Of course she’s a professor,” she groaned. “Of course she is.”
After the call ended, Muti’s phone buzzed almost immediately.
A message from Rui.
Rui: don’t say i didn’t warn u
Rui: sent a profile
Muti frowned, curiosity already winning. She rolled onto her side, blanket bunching around her waist, and tapped the link.
The screen loaded.
And then—
“Oh,” Muti whispered.
The first photo hit her like a physical thing.
Wumuti stood framed in clean light, long red hair falling straight down her back, impossibly sleek. Her posture was perfect, shoulders squared, chin slightly lifted. She wore structured clothes—dark, tailored, sharp lines that emphasized how tall she was, how composed. Glasses sat low on her nose, eyes unreadable and focused on the camera like she could see straight through whoever was looking.
Muti stared.
Scrolled.
Another photo. Wumuti in a fitted vest and button-down, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal her wrists. Expression neutral. Severe. Beautiful in a way that didn’t ask for permission.
Muti’s mouth went dry.
“Oh my god,” she breathed, sitting up slowly like the force of it demanded better posture. “Rui.”
She scrolled again.
Every photo was worse. Better. Worse in the way it made her chest feel tight, like she’d swallowed something warm and didn’t know where to put it. Wumuti never smiled. Never posed cutely. She looked controlled, intimidating, devastatingly attractive without trying at all.
This was the woman from the mall.
This was the woman who had taken the marker without apology.
Muti hugged her pillow to her chest, staring at the screen like it might change if she blinked.
“She’s insane,” Muti muttered. “This should be illegal.”
Her brain betrayed her almost instantly—vivid, intrusive flashes of closeness, of that sharp gaze turning on her fully, of being looked at like she mattered and didn’t at the same time. The thought made her stomach flip, heat rushing up her neck.
She groaned softly and dropped her face into the pillow.
“No,” Muti said firmly, muffled. “Absolutely not.”
She peeked again anyway.
Wumuti’s presence through a screen was overwhelming. Even standing still, even silent, she looked like someone who took up space effortlessly. Someone who expected the world to move aside. Someone who wouldn’t ask—only wait for compliance.
Muti swallowed hard.
Her heart thudded, traitorous and fast.
“What is wrong with me,” she whispered, half horrified, half mesmerized.
Another message popped up.
Rui: told u
Rui: she’s terrifying, right
Muti typed, deleted, typed again.
Muti: rui
Muti: this is not fair
Muti: she can’t look like that and be mean
She locked her phone and tossed it onto the bed like it had personally attacked her, then lay back staring at the ceiling, pulse still racing.
—
A month passed.
Long enough for the sharp edge of the marker incident to dull—just a little. Long enough for Muti to stop replaying the exact sound of Wumuti’s voice in her head every night. Long enough for her to tell herself, very firmly, that whatever that was had been a one-time thing. A fluke. A strange collision of bad timing and worse chemistry.
She almost believed it.
Life went on. Paint stains came and went. Her students learned new songs, new words, new ways to hold scissors properly. Muti laughed, clapped, praised, lived in her usual bright rhythm.
Until the field trip.
The kindergarten bus was loud in the way only excited children could manage. Small shoes kicked seats, voices overlapped, questions came rapid-fire. Muti stood at the front, holding the microphone with one hand and her patience with the other.
“Inside voices,” she reminded gently. “We’re visiting a museum, remember?”
The City History and Science Museum rose up in front of them—tall, modern, glass reflecting the sky. It was one of the safer, quieter options for a field trip. Educational. Structured. Controlled.
Muti liked controlled environments when she was responsible for twenty tiny humans.
They filed in with matching name tags, each child clutching a buddy’s hand. Muti counted them twice, then three times, before finally letting herself relax.
She was explaining the rules—no running, no touching displays unless told—when she saw her.
At first, Muti thought she was imagining things.
Long red hair. Pulled back neatly. Dark, tailored clothes that stood out sharply against the museum’s neutral tones. Glasses catching the light as the woman turned slightly, listening to someone speak beside her.
Muti’s heart dropped straight to her stomach.
“No way,” she whispered.
Wumuti.
Here.
Of all places.
Her brain scrambled for logic. Why would a college professor be here on a weekday morning? Why here, of all places, with her students, with zero warning?
As if summoned by Muti’s disbelief, a plaque near the exhibit caught her eye.
Guest Lecture Today: Archival Preservation and Historical Documentation — Professor Wumuti
Of course.
Of course Wumuti wasn’t just visiting. She was working. In her element. Surrounded by neatly dressed graduate students taking notes, clipboards in hand, listening intently as she spoke in that same composed, authoritative way Muti remembered all too well.
Muti swallowed.
The kids tugged at her sleeves, eager to move on, but she barely noticed. Her attention was locked entirely on the woman across the hall.
Wumuti looked exactly the same.
Impossibly composed. Unbothered. Like the world bent slightly around her just by existing.
Muti hesitated.
She could ignore her. Absolutely could. Shepherd her class away, pretend she hadn’t seen anything. That would be the mature thing to do.
She did not do the mature thing.
“Okay,” Muti said suddenly, clapping her hands. “Everyone stay right here with Teacher Jina for a moment, okay? I’ll be right back.”
Before her brain could catch up, she was already walking.
Each step felt heavier than the last. Her heart thudded loud in her ears, confidence draining and then—somehow—rebuilding itself into something reckless.
She stopped a few feet away.
“Um,” Muti said.
Wumuti turned.
The recognition was immediate. Sharp eyes focused, posture stiffening almost imperceptibly. Her expression cooled, annoyance flickering across her face like she’d just remembered something unpleasant.
“You,” Wumuti said flatly.
Muti winced—and smiled anyway.
“Hi,” she said brightly, as if they hadn’t met over a near-physical altercation in a craft store. “Funny seeing you here.”
“This is a museum,” Wumuti replied. “Not a coincidence.”
Muti laughed, a little too quick. “Right. Of course. Academic reasons.”
She gestured vaguely around them. “I’m here with my students. Field trip.”
Wumuti’s gaze flicked past her—to the group of kindergarteners lined up neatly, tiny backpacks and wide eyes. Something unreadable crossed her face.
“…You teach kindergarten,” Wumuti said, more statement than question.
“Yes,” Muti said proudly. “They’re very well-behaved. Mostly.”
She rocked slightly on her heels, trying to look casual. “You look… very in place here.”
Wumuti did not look amused.
“I’m in the middle of supervising interns,” she said coolly. “Is there something you need?”
Ouch.
Muti ignored the sting. “No,” she said quickly. “I just—thought I’d say hi. Since, you know. Last time wasn’t exactly… friendly.”
Wumuti’s jaw tightened.
“If you’re here to argue about the marker again,” she said, “I’m not interested.”
“I’m not,” Muti said, hands up. “I promise. I just thought maybe we could start over.”
She smiled, softer now. “I’m Muti.”
There was a pause.
“Wumuti,” she replied, curt.
“I know,” Muti said before she could stop herself.
Wumuti’s eyes narrowed slightly.
Muti flushed but pressed on. “I mean—someone told me. Anyway. I like your hair.”
That earned her nothing but a flat look.
“It’s impractical,” Wumuti said. “Is that all?”
Muti laughed again, embarrassed but undeterred. “You’re really not making this easy.”
“I’m not required to,” Wumuti replied.
Behind them, one of Wumuti’s interns cleared their throat nervously.
Wumuti glanced at her watch. “I have a lecture to continue.”
“Right,” Muti said. “Of course you do.”
She hesitated, then added, “Still. It was… nice seeing you again.”
Wumuti nodded once. Minimal. Polite. Dismissive.
As she turned away, Muti watched her go, heart racing all over again.
So much for a fresh start.
But as Wumuti walked back to her group, she slowed—just slightly.
And for the briefest moment, she glanced back.
Muti saw it.
And she smiled.
—
A week later, Muti found out by accident.
She was sitting on the floor of her classroom during nap time, back against a shelf, scrolling through her phone while twenty tiny humans slept in various strange positions. Rui had sent a long voice message earlier—half complaining, half rambling—and Muti was just about to reply when another notification popped up.
Haru: uni event next week btw
Haru: open campus thing. talks. exhibits. boring but required
Haru: rui cant go. hyun cant either
Muti blinked.
Open campus.
Her thumb hovered over the screen as her brain started connecting dots it absolutely did not need to connect.
University event meant professors. Professors meant lectures. Lectures meant—
Wumuti.
Her stomach did a very annoying little flip.
Muti sat up straighter, suddenly wide awake despite the quiet room. She reread the message once. Twice. Then a third time, just to make sure she wasn’t inventing things.
If Rui and Hyun couldn’t go… that meant Haru would be alone.
And if Haru was alone…
Muti could go.
The realization hit her fully a second later.
“Oh,” Muti whispered, eyes widening. “Oh no.”
Because it wasn’t just that she might see Wumuti.
There was a very high chance she would.
Wumuti was a professor. A strict one. The kind who definitely participated in official university events. Panels. Guest talks. Exhibits. The kind who wore structured clothes and stood behind podiums and looked terrifyingly competent.
Muti pressed her phone to her chest and stared at the ceiling.
This was a terrible idea.
This was an amazing idea.
She typed back almost immediately.
Muti: i can go with u if u want
Muti: i’m free that day
Muti: i’ll behave
The reply came quickly.
Haru: u?
Haru: sure lol
Haru: just dont flirt with my professors
Muti snorted.
Muti: rude
Muti: no promises
The decision was made.
The days leading up to the event passed agonizingly slowly. Muti told herself—repeatedly—that this was just about helping Haru. Being supportive. Doing a nice thing.
She absolutely did not plan outfits in her head while brushing her teeth. She absolutely did not imagine bumping into Wumuti again. She absolutely did not feel her heart speed up every time she thought about it.
The night before the event, her room looked like a small fashion explosion.
Clothes were everywhere. Cardigans draped over chairs. Skirts folded, unfolded, folded again. Accessories scattered across her bed like evidence of a crime.
Muti sat cross-legged in the middle of it all, holding two hair clips up in front of her mirror.
Stars… or hearts?
She sighed and dropped them both onto the bed.
“I’m overthinking,” she told herself out loud. “I always overthink.”
Still, she stood up and walked to the mirror.
Her purple hair caught the light beautifully, soft and unmistakably her. She ran her fingers through it, smiling faintly. She loved it. Loved how it made her feel bright, playful, alive. She wasn’t about to change that for anyone—especially not for a woman who barely tolerated her existence.
Her outfit came together slowly.
A soft, colorful top. A skirt that flattered her without trying too hard. A cardigan she loved, because it made her feel comfortable and confident at the same time. She chose clips that matched—cute but not childish. Intentional, but still unmistakably Muti.
When she finally stepped back, she studied herself quietly.
Cute. Colorful. Different.
Very different from Wumuti.
Her chest tightened a little, doubt creeping in.
What if she looks ridiculous at a university event? What if Wumuti takes one look at her and dismisses her again? What if—
Muti shook her head, forcing the thoughts away.
“So what,” she muttered. “I like this.”
And she did.
The university was alive in a way Muti hadn’t expected.
Booths lined the walkways, banners fluttered overhead, students clustered around tables covered in pamphlets and displays. Professors stood in small groups, dressed sharply, talking with practiced confidence. There was a constant hum of voices—excited, bored, curious—all layered together.
Muti walked beside Haru, hands clasped behind her back, eyes wandering everywhere at once.
“Wow,” she murmured. “You guys really go all out.”
Haru shrugged. “It’s mostly for show.”
Muti smiled, but her attention wasn’t really on the event anymore.
It had already been an hour.
An entire hour of walking, stopping, listening to explanations she only half-followed, laughing at Haru’s dry commentary—and still, no sign of her.
She told herself she didn’t care. She told herself she was just here to support Haru. She told herself to stop scanning every crowd for flashes of red hair.
Then she saw her.
Wumuti stood near one of the main buildings, talking to a small group of attendees. She looked exactly like she belonged there—more than anyone else. Long red hair fell straight down her back, glossy and severe. Her outfit was immaculate: structured vest, crisp shirt, tailored slacks. Glasses perched low on her nose as she spoke, one hand gesturing minimally, precisely.
Muti’s heart skipped.
“Oh,” she whispered. “There she is.”
Haru followed her gaze and grimaced. “Ah. Her.”
Muti didn’t miss that tone. “You sound traumatized.”
“You would be too if she graded your papers,” Haru replied. “Don’t go near her.”
Muti smiled.
“I’m absolutely going near her.”
Before Haru could stop her, Muti was already walking.
She smoothed her cardigan as she went, straightened her posture, lifted her chin. Her confidence came back in small pieces—step by step, heartbeat by heartbeat. By the time she stopped a few feet away, she was smiling brightly.
“Professor Wumuti,” Muti said.
Wumuti turned.
For just a fraction of a second, something slipped.
Her eyes widened slightly. Her words faltered. The smooth flow of her explanation paused as she registered who was standing there—purple hair, colorful clothes, that familiar, infuriatingly warm smile.
“…You,” Wumuti said.
Muti beamed. “Hi again.”
The group around Wumuti exchanged glances. One of them excused themselves quietly, sensing something charged in the air.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Wumuti said, recovering quickly, her tone returning to cool professionalism.
“Funny,” Muti replied lightly. “I was hoping.”
That earned her a look—sharp, assessing.
“This is a university event,” Wumuti said. “Not a social one.”
“Good thing I’m very good at learning,” Muti said. “I can be quiet. I promise.”
She tilted her head, eyes bright. “You look really impressive up there, by the way. Everyone’s listening to you.”
Wumuti adjusted her glasses. “That’s generally the expectation.”
Muti laughed softly. “You don’t make it easy to compliment you.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“And yet,” Muti said, stepping just a little closer, lowering her voice, “you’re still standing here listening.”
Wumuti’s jaw tightened.
“Is there a reason you keep seeking me out?” she asked.
Muti didn’t hesitate. “You’re interesting.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is for me.”
Wumuti studied her, eyes flicking over her outfit—her hair clips, her colors, her unapologetic softness in the middle of all this structure.
“You stand out,” Wumuti said finally.
Muti smiled wider. “So do you.”
They stood there, tension humming quietly between them.
Then Muti leaned in just slightly—not invading her space, just close enough that Wumuti could hear her without effort.
“You know,” Muti said gently, “for someone who hates inefficiency, you spend a lot of time pretending you don’t notice me.”
That did it.
Wumuti blinked.
Actually blinked.
For the first time since Muti had met her, Wumuti looked… caught off guard. Her composure wavered, just barely. A pause stretched between them, heavy and undeniable.
Muti saw it—and felt a thrill shoot through her.
There it is.
Wumuti straightened, regaining control almost immediately, but something had shifted. Her voice was steadier than her eyes.
“You’re being inappropriate,” she said.
Muti shrugged, unbothered. “You didn’t stop me.”
Silence again.
Around them, the event continued—laughter, footsteps, voices—but for a moment, it felt like the world had narrowed to just the two of them.
Wumuti finally spoke, quieter now.
“You should go back to your friend.”
Muti nodded, stepping back—but not before flashing her a mischievous smile.
“See you around, Professor.”
As she walked away, Muti’s heart raced, hands warm, smile impossible to hide.
Behind her, Wumuti watched her go.
And this time, she didn’t look away.
The sky had darkened by the time the event began to wind down.
Warm lights flickered on across campus, illuminating pathways and casting long shadows across the stone walkways. Booths were being dismantled slowly, banners coming down, conversations softening as people grew tired. The energy shifted—from formal and bustling to something looser, almost intimate.
Muti stood with Haru near a food stall, sipping a sweet drink she’d barely tasted.
Her eyes kept drifting.
She’d tried not to. She’d told herself once was enough, twice was pushing it—but the pull was undeniable. Every few minutes, she found herself scanning the crowds again, searching for one specific flash of red.
“You’re not subtle,” Haru said dryly, following her gaze.
Muti smiled innocently. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You’re looking for her again.”
Muti didn’t deny it. “Just checking.”
Haru sighed. “You’re going to get yourself emotionally wrecked.”
“Worth it,” Muti said without missing a beat.
And then—there she was.
Wumuti stood near the steps of one of the academic buildings, jacket draped neatly over one arm, phone in her hand as she spoke quietly to a colleague. Her posture was relaxed compared to earlier, the rigid edge softened just slightly now that the event was nearly over.
Muti’s heart kicked.
“Okay,” she said, setting her cup down. “I’ll be right back.”
Haru grabbed her wrist. “Noona—”
“I’ll be quick,” Muti promised, already slipping away.
She approached slower this time, nerves finally catching up with confidence. The night air was cooler, carrying the faint scent of grass and city lights. Her footsteps felt loud in her ears as she stopped just behind Wumuti.
“Professor,” Muti said softly.
Wumuti turned.
And this time, she didn’t mask the reaction fast enough.
Her eyes widened. Her breath caught—just barely. It was subtle, but Muti saw it. The pause. The hesitation. The momentary loss of control.
“You again,” Wumuti said—but the sharpness was gone.
Muti smiled, gentler now. “I wanted to say goodnight.”
“That’s… unnecessary,” Wumuti replied, adjusting her grip on her jacket. “The event isn’t—”
“Over?” Muti finished. “I know. But it’s late. You look tired.”
Wumuti opened her mouth to respond—and stopped.
Muti had stepped closer, not invading, just within the edge of personal space. Close enough that Wumuti could see the sparkle of her hair clips under the lights, the softness of her expression now that she wasn’t trying so hard.
“You did amazing today,” Muti said quietly. “I heard people talking about your lecture. They were impressed.”
Wumuti swallowed.
“I was doing my job,” she said—but her voice wavered.
Just a little.
Muti noticed.
She always did.
“You’re allowed to be impressive and acknowledged,” Muti said. “It won’t hurt you.”
That earned her a startled sound—not quite a laugh, not quite a scoff.
“I—” Wumuti paused, then tried again. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Why?” Muti asked softly. “Because you don’t know what to do with them?”
Wumuti looked away.
And when she looked back—her cheeks were pink.
Muti’s breath hitched.
“Oh,” she whispered, delighted. “You’re blushing.”
“I am not,” Wumuti said quickly, words tripping over each other. “That’s—this lighting is—”
Muti grinned. “You’re stuttering.”
“I don’t—” Wumuti stopped, visibly collecting herself. “You’re doing this on purpose.”
“Yes,” Muti admitted happily.
Before Wumuti could respond—
“Noona!”
Haru’s voice cut through the night.
Muti turned halfway. “One second!”
She looked back at Wumuti, eyes bright, impulsive warmth bubbling up before her brain could interfere.
“Goodnight, Professor,” she said sweetly.
And before Wumuti could step back, before she could recover—
Muti leaned in and pressed a quick, soft kiss to Wumuti’s cheek.
It lasted barely a second.
But it shattered everything.
Wumuti froze completely.
Her breath caught. Her face went scarlet, color blooming across her cheeks and up to the tips of her ears. When Muti pulled back, Wumuti was staring at her like she’d just broken several fundamental laws of reality.
“I—” Wumuti tried. Failed. “You—”
Muti giggled softly, already stepping away. “Sleep well.”
She turned and ran back toward Haru, heart pounding, laughter bubbling out of her chest like she couldn’t contain it.
Behind her, Wumuti lifted a hand slowly to her cheek.
And stayed very, very still.
—
Another month passed.
The sharpness of that kiss didn’t fade the way it should have. If anything, it settled—quiet, persistent, impossible to ignore. Life resumed its rhythm again: lesson plans, nap times, glitter disasters, bedtime routines. Muti didn’t talk about Wumuti much anymore. Not to Rui. Not to Haru. Not even to herself.
But she thought about her.
More often than she cared to admit.
And then, one afternoon, fate decided to be cruel in the most specific way possible.
Muti stood in the same mall.
The same craft store.
The same aisle.
Markers.
She stared at the display with mild annoyance, basket hooked over her arm. She really did only need one this time—just one thick permanent marker for labeling new shelves. Easy. In and out.
She reached for the rack.
And froze.
Long red hair caught her eye first.
Her breath stopped.
Wumuti stood two steps away, angled toward the display, glasses perched neatly on her nose. She wore the same kind of sharp, structured clothes—dark blazer, clean lines, sleeves buttoned just so. Calm. Composed. Unaware.
For half a second, Muti considered backing away.
Then she remembered the first time.
The tug. The dismissal. The way Wumuti had walked off without looking back.
Muti’s lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile.
“Oh,” she murmured. “No.”
Before Wumuti could notice her, Muti lunged forward.
She swept her arm across the display with dramatic purpose, scooping every single marker—black, blue, red, thick, thin—into her basket in one decisive motion. Plastic clattered loudly. The rack was left bare.
Wumuti turned sharply.
Her eyes widened.
“…What,” she said flatly, staring at the empty hooks. Then her gaze dropped—to Muti’s basket. Full. Ridiculously full.
Muti looked up at her, feigning innocence. “Oh. Hi.”
Wumuti blinked once. Twice.
“You don’t need all of those,” she said, irritation already creeping into her voice.
Muti tilted her head. “How do you know?”
“Because no one needs twelve permanent markers,” Wumuti replied. “That’s inefficient.”
Muti hummed thoughtfully, hugging the basket closer to her chest. “Maybe I’m planning ahead.”
“This is absurd.”
“You didn’t think so last time,” Muti said lightly. “You took the only one.”
Recognition flashed instantly.
“You,” Wumuti said.
“Me,” Muti agreed cheerfully.
The tension snapped into place like it had been waiting.
Wumuti crossed her arms. “Are you doing this intentionally?”
Muti stepped closer, eyes bright, smile sharp. “Absolutely.”
“This is childish.”
“Yes,” Muti said happily. “I work with children.”
Wumuti exhaled slowly, visibly restraining herself. “Give me one.”
Muti glanced down at the basket, pretending to consider it. “Hmm.”
“Muti,” Wumuti said, clipped.
Muti’s eyebrows lifted. “You remembered my name.”
A pause.
Wumuti looked away for a fraction of a second. “…Give me the marker.”
Muti leaned in just enough to lower her voice. “Say please.”
Wumuti’s jaw tightened.
People passed behind them. The mall buzzed on, oblivious to the standoff happening in a craft store aisle.
“Please,” Wumuti said finally, tight and controlled.
Muti grinned.
She plucked one marker from the basket and held it out—but didn’t let go immediately. Their fingers brushed when Wumuti reached for it. Just a second. Just enough.
“See?” Muti said softly. “Sharing isn’t so hard.”
Wumuti took the marker quickly, cheeks faintly pink despite herself. “You’re impossible.”
Muti watched her, utterly satisfied, basket still absurdly full. “And yet you keep running into me.”
Wumuti turned to leave.
Marker secured. Composure rebuilt. Her heels clicked against the floor with that same precise rhythm, posture straight, chin lifted—as if the last five minutes hadn’t happened at all.
Muti watched her go.
For half a second, she let herself hesitate.
Then—
“Wait.”
The word slipped out before she could stop it.
Wumuti paused mid-step.
Didn’t turn around right away.
The silence stretched just long enough to make Muti’s heart start racing. Around them, carts rolled by, someone laughed too loudly near the registers, the mall carried on like nothing important was happening.
Finally, Wumuti turned back.
“Yes?” she said coolly. “What is it now?”
Muti swallowed, fingers tightening around the handle of her basket full of unnecessary markers. Her confidence flickered—not gone, just reshaping itself into something more honest.
“I know this is probably not how you expected your day to go,” Muti said, trying to sound casual and failing just a little. “And I know I annoy you.”
“That’s an understatement,” Wumuti replied.
Muti smiled faintly. “Yeah. But you remember me.”
Wumuti didn’t deny it.
Muti took a step closer, lowering her voice—not flirty now, not teasing. Just… sincere.
“I don’t like unfinished things,” she said. “And we keep running into each other.”
“That’s coincidence,” Wumuti said.
“Three times?” Muti tilted her head. “That’s persistence.”
Wumuti’s gaze flicked down to the basket, then back up. “This,” she said dryly, “is sabotage.”
Muti laughed softly. “Maybe.”
She took a breath.
Then, before she could overthink it, she said it.
“Can I have your number?”
The words hung there.
Wumuti froze.
Actually froze.
Her brows drew together slightly, like her brain needed a moment to recalibrate. “My… number.”
“Yes,” Muti said quickly, rushing a little now. “Just—so I don’t have to ambush you in stationery aisles anymore.”
“That would be preferable,” Wumuti muttered.
Muti watched her face carefully—every micro-expression, every flicker of emotion she usually kept locked down. There was irritation there, sure. But there was also hesitation. Consideration.
And something else.
“You realize,” Wumuti said slowly, “that this is inappropriate.”
Muti nodded. “I do.”
“And persistent.”
“Yes.”
“And extremely inconvenient.”
Muti smiled, soft and unguarded. “I know.”
Silence again.
Wumuti adjusted her glasses. Looked away. Looked back.
“You’re relentless,” she said quietly.
“Only when I care.”
That did it.
Wumuti exhaled—a long, controlled breath that sounded suspiciously like surrender. She reached into her bag, pulled out her phone, and unlocked it.
Muti’s eyes widened.
“Give me your phone,” Wumuti said.
Muti handed it over immediately, heart hammering. She watched, barely breathing, as Wumuti typed—fast, precise. A new contact appeared.
Wumuti
No emoji. No extra notes.
Of course.
Wumuti handed the phone back. Their fingers brushed again—this time neither of them pulled away right away.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” Wumuti said firmly.
Muti looked at the screen. Then up at her.
“It means you didn’t say no.”
Wumuti’s lips pressed into a thin line. “…Don’t make a habit of this.”
Muti’s smile bloomed slow and bright. “I’ll try.”
Wumuti turned to leave again—but this time, she hesitated.
Without looking back, she added, “Text me.”
Muti stood there, stunned.
Then she laughed—quiet, disbelieving, joyful.
As Wumuti disappeared into the crowd, Muti clutched her phone to her chest, basket of markers forgotten entirely.
Finally.
—
The next morning, Muti woke up ten minutes earlier than usual.
Not because of an alarm.
Because her phone was already in her hand.
She lay on her side, blanket half-kicked off, purple hair a mess against the pillow as she stared at the contact like it might disappear if she blinked too long.
Wumuti.
No last name. No emoji. No notes.
Perfectly on brand.
Muti smiled to herself, then immediately unlocked her phone.
She didn’t even think about whether she should text.
She thought about what first.
By the time she was brushing her teeth, she’d already sent three messages.
Muti: good morning professor
Muti: did u sleep well
Muti: or do u wake up already judging the world
She laughed quietly, toothpaste foam threatening to drip as she watched the typing bubble appear.
Then disappear.
Then nothing.
Muti hummed, entirely unbothered.
On the walk to work, the city was still stretching awake. The air was cool, sidewalks damp from last night’s humidity. Muti swung her bag lightly, phone held up like a lifeline as she snapped a picture of the sunrise bleeding pink and orange between buildings.
sent.
Muti: this made me think of u
Muti: very serious colors
Muti: but still pretty
No reply.
She giggled anyway.
A few steps later, she passed a bakery just opening for the day. Warm light spilled through the windows, shelves filling with bread. Without hesitation, she took another picture—croissants lined up neatly, almost aggressively symmetrical.
sent.
Muti: this feels like ur aesthetic
Muti: very organized
Muti: unlike me
She paused, then added—
Muti: i’d mess it up in 5 minutes max
Still nothing.
Muti wasn’t discouraged. If anything, it fueled her.
She crossed the street, nearly skipping as she did, and sent a selfie this time. Nothing too deliberate—just her smiling softly, purple hair clipped back with mismatched stars, morning light catching her face.
sent.
Muti: heading to work
Muti: kids day today
Muti: wish me luck
She tucked her phone into her pocket briefly, humming to herself, then pulled it back out not even a minute later.
Muti: do u drink coffee
Muti: or are u one of those scary people who don’t need it
This time—
A vibration.
Muti stopped walking.
Her heart leapt.
Wumuti: You’re very talkative in the mornings.
Muti beamed like she’d just won something.
Muti: u noticed
Muti: good morning btw
Three dots appeared.
Paused.
Appeared again.
Wumuti: I’m on my way to campus.
Muti started walking again, lighter now, fingers already flying.
Muti: same but kindergarten version
Muti: significantly louder
Muti: significantly messier
She sent one more photo—her shoes stepping carefully around a puddle, colorful socks peeking out.
Muti: see
Muti: chaos even before 9am
There was a longer pause this time.
Muti reached the school gates, kids already arriving, parents waving. She slowed, phone still clutched in her hand.
Then—
Wumuti: …You’re distracting.
Muti laughed out loud.
She typed back quickly, warmth spreading through her chest.
Muti: good
Muti: that means i’m doing it right
She slipped her phone into her bag as a small hand tugged at her sleeve, a child calling her name. Muti knelt down, smile bright, attention shifting—but not fully.
Because in her pocket, her phone buzzed once more.
And Muti knew, without even checking—
Wumuti was still there.
For the rest of the week, it became routine.
Not a balanced routine. Not a fair one.
A Muti routine.
Every morning, without fail, Wumuti woke up to notifications she absolutely had not asked for.
Monday started gently enough.
By the time Wumuti reached her office, phone set face-down beside her laptop, it buzzed again.
And again.
And again.
She ignored it for twenty minutes out of pure principle.
When she finally checked—
Muti: good morning again
Muti: i forgot to tell u my hair clip today is ducks
Muti: theyre yellow
Muti: very important information
Wumuti stared at the screen for a long moment.
Then, reluctantly—
Wumuti: That is unnecessary information.
Muti replied immediately.
Muti: wow u replied
Muti: i feel special
Wumuti put her phone down and did not respond again for the next four hours.
By lunchtime, there were twelve new messages.
Tuesday was worse.
Muti sent photos of finger-painted hands, crayon disasters, a half-eaten cookie a student had insisted she take.
Muti: they said sharing is caring
Muti: so now this cookie is urs too
No reply.
Then, later—
Muti: r u ignoring me or r u busy
Muti: both is valid
Muti: but i prefer the second
Wumuti sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.
Wumuti: I’m lecturing.
Three dots appeared immediately.
Muti: omg
Muti: am i interrupting
Muti: sorry professor
Muti: i’ll be quiet for 10 minutes
She lasted six.
Wednesday, Muti started sending voice notes.
Short ones. Bright ones. Completely unnecessary ones.
Wumuti listened to exactly one on accident while reaching for her phone.
“Muti here. Just wanted to say hi. Also one of my kids asked if professors are scary and i said yes but in a hot way—”
Wumuti nearly dropped her phone.
She did not reply for the rest of the day.
That evening, while reviewing papers, another message arrived.
Muti: i think i scared u
Muti: sorry
Muti: a little
Against her better judgment—
Wumuti: Don’t do that again.
Muti’s response was immediate.
Muti: noted
Muti: will do something else instead
Wumuti had no idea what that meant.
Thursday, the messages slowed.
Not because Muti was tired.
Because she’d decided to be strategic.
Fewer texts. More impact.
A single photo of her coffee, foam shaped like a heart.
Muti: thought of u
Muti: dont ask why
Silence.
An hour later—
Muti: okay i’ll tell u why
Muti: its bc its bitter
Muti: but nice
Wumuti closed her eyes.
Later that night, she replied with exactly one word.
Wumuti: …Stop.
Muti smiled at her screen like she’d just been praised.
By Friday, something had shifted.
Wumuti still didn’t reply often. Sometimes once a day. Sometimes not at all.
But she read everything.
She found herself checking her phone more than she should. Pausing between tasks. Waiting—just slightly—for the next vibration.
And when it came, she always knew it was her.
Muti: survived the week
Muti: how about u
Muti: still alive professor
There was a long pause.
Then—
Wumuti: Barely.
Muti laughed so hard she had to sit down.
She typed back, fingers warm, heart light.
Muti: good
Muti: that means i’ll see u again next week
Wumuti didn’t reply.
But she didn’t block her either.
And that, to Muti, meant everything.
—
Monday afternoon arrived quietly.
Wumuti’s last class ended without incident—students packing their things, chairs scraping softly against the floor, polite goodbyes exchanged. Once the room was empty, she gathered her materials with practiced efficiency and left the building, already running through a mental list of things she needed for her office. Nothing indulgent. Nothing unnecessary.
Markers. Sticky notes. A new pen holder, maybe.
She stopped by the mall on the way home, the familiar hum of fluorescent lights and distant chatter settling into the background as she pushed her cart forward. Her steps were unhurried, posture straight, attention focused. This was routine. Predictable. Comfortable.
She turned down one aisle—
—and slowed.
Purple caught her eye.
Not muted. Not subtle. Bright, unmistakable purple.
Wumuti’s gaze lifted before she could stop herself.
The toy aisle.
A chaotic stretch of color and noise even without sound—stuffed animals stacked too high, plastic packaging shouting for attention, shelves packed with tiny hands in mind rather than adult sensibilities.
And there, crouched low near the bottom shelf, was Muti.
Her purple hair was half-pinned up with mismatched clips—one a star, another shaped like a tiny frog. She wore something colorful and layered, sleeves pushed up, skirt swaying slightly as she shifted her weight. She was examining a basket of toy cars with intense seriousness, as if choosing the fate of the world rather than classroom supplies.
Wumuti stopped walking entirely.
For a brief, dangerous second, she considered turning around.
Then Muti looked up.
Their eyes met.
Time stalled.
Muti froze—just for a heartbeat—before her face broke into a wide, unmistakable smile, eyes lighting up like she’d found exactly what she’d been looking for.
“Wumuti—!”
She didn’t walk.
She ran.
Wumuti barely had time to react before a blur of color rushed straight toward her. The collision was sudden, soft but forceful enough to knock the breath from her chest.
“—oh!”
Instinct took over.
Wumuti dropped her cart and reached out, hands catching Muti by the arms just in time. The cart rattled beside them, wheels squeaking loudly as it jolted to a stop. Muti’s momentum carried her forward anyway, body tipping into Wumuti’s space.
If Wumuti hadn’t caught her, they would have gone straight to the floor.
Muti laughed, breathless, fingers curling into the front of Wumuti’s coat.
“Oops.”
They were far too close.
Muti’s forehead hovered near Wumuti’s collarbone, her warmth unmistakable. Wumuti could feel it—through fabric, through instinct—the softness of her weight, the faint scent of something sweet and clean. Her grip tightened unconsciously, steady and firm, anchoring them both.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Wumuti looked down.
Muti looked up.
Their eyes locked, unbroken this time.
“You really should be more careful,” Wumuti said at last, her voice even, controlled—despite the way her pulse betrayed her.
Muti smiled, unapologetic and bright.
“But you caught me.”
Wumuti released her immediately, stepping back as if remembering herself too late. She straightened her coat, adjusted her glasses, composure snapping back into place with practiced ease.
“That doesn’t make it acceptable,” she said.
Muti only grinned wider.
“Still counts.”
Wumuti cleared her throat. “What are you doing here?”
Muti gestured behind her, toward the explosion of toys lining the shelves. “Work stuff. The kids destroyed half the classroom today. I’m doing morale repairs.”
Wumuti’s gaze flicked briefly to the toys—dinosaurs, plush animals, plastic kitchens.
“…I see.”
A pause settled between them. Not awkward—charged.
Muti rocked lightly on her heels, clearly enjoying herself.
“You shop like a very responsible adult,” Muti said, peeking into Wumuti’s cart. “Very on brand.”
“And you run like a child,” Wumuti replied before she could stop herself.
Muti gasped dramatically. “Wow. Rude.”
Then she leaned in just slightly, lowering her voice.
“But you still caught me.”
Wumuti looked away first.
Her ears felt warm.
She told herself it was nothing.
Absolutely nothing at all.
And Muti, somehow—against all logic and common sense—ended up with Wumuti standing beside her in the toy aisle.
It started innocently enough.
“Well,” Muti said, rocking on her heels and holding up a small plush dinosaur, “this one is cute, but it looks like it bites.”
Wumuti glanced at it once. “It’s a herbivore.”
Muti blinked. “You know that?”
“I teach,” Wumuti replied flatly. “Knowing things is part of the job.”
Muti laughed, delighted, and immediately placed the dinosaur into her basket anyway. Then she picked up another toy. And another. She moved slowly down the aisle, drifting closer and closer to Wumuti with every step, like gravity was optional for her.
Wumuti told herself she was only helping because it would be faster to get this over with.
“Okay,” Muti said, holding up two boxes. “Which one looks less likely to break in a week?”
Wumuti examined both, fingers brushing cardboard as she compared them. “This one. Better construction. Fewer detachable parts.”
Muti leaned in far too close to watch her choose, eyes following Wumuti’s hands.
“You’re scary competent,” Muti said fondly.
“I’m efficient,” Wumuti corrected.
“Same thing.”
They moved on.
Muti talked the entire time—about her students, about how one of them cried because a crayon snapped in half, about how another insisted dinosaurs were better teachers than adults. Her voice filled the space easily, bright and animated, bouncing off shelves of plastic and plush.
Wumuti mostly listened.
Occasionally, she answered. Brief. Precise. Useful.
Somehow, that only encouraged Muti more.
By the time they reached the end of the aisle, Muti’s basket was half full, and Wumuti was holding a box she didn’t remember agreeing to examine.
Muti tilted her head, studying Wumuti openly now.
“You know,” she said casually, “when I first met you, I thought you were a very rude person.”
Wumuti raised an eyebrow. “We fought over a marker.”
“That’s not the point,” Muti said lightly. “You were cold. Intimidating. Very unapproachable.”
She smiled, soft and mischievous.
“You still are, of course.”
Wumuti huffed. “Then why are you—”
“The only thing that changed,” Muti continued, stepping just a little closer, lowering her voice like she was sharing a secret, “is that now I think about you and—”
She paused deliberately.
“—I think about how much I’d want to kneel in front of you and let you do whatever you want with me.”
Wumuti inhaled sharply.
And immediately choked.
She turned away, coughing once, then again, hand flying to her chest as if air itself had betrayed her. “What—” she rasped. “That is—completely inappropriate—”
Muti watched her with wide, innocent eyes.
“Oh,” she said. “Sorry. Was that too honest?”
Wumuti straightened, visibly struggling to regain control, ears flushed red. She adjusted her glasses with a hand that was very deliberately steady.
“You cannot just say things like that,” she said tightly.
Muti smiled, unapologetic.
“But I just did.”
Wumuti stared at her.
Muti picked up another toy and dropped it into her basket like nothing monumental had just happened.
“So,” she said cheerfully, “do you think this one’s safe for five-year-olds?”
—
By the time Muti finally declared herself done, her basket was overflowing.
She stood at the counter, happily unloading toys one by one—plush animals, colorful puzzles, plastic figurines—chatting all the while about which child would love which toy the most. Wumuti stood just behind her, arms folded, expression carefully neutral, pretending she hadn’t been roped into this whole ordeal.
Pretending, also, that her ears weren’t still warm.
Once Muti paid and skipped off toward the exit with her bags swinging dangerously at her sides, Wumuti took the opportunity to retrieve what she’d actually come for. She moved efficiently through the stationery aisle, grabbing markers, folders, and a new stack of neatly lined notebooks. Practical. Sensible. Familiar.
When she returned to the front of the store—
Muti was waiting.
Leaning against a pillar, hands clasped behind her back, purple hair clips catching the light. She smiled the moment she saw Wumuti.
“You’re done,” Muti said, as if she’d been counting the seconds.
“Yes,” Wumuti replied. “And now I’m leaving.”
“Mm,” Muti hummed, stepping directly into her path. “You look like someone who needs coffee.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
Before Wumuti could object again, Muti reached out and hooked her fingers around the strap of Wumuti’s bag, tugging lightly.
“There’s a café right there,” Muti said, already walking backward. “Five minutes. Ten, max.”
“I don’t have time for—”
Muti stumbled.
Not dramatically. Just enough.
Her bags shifted, weight pulling her off balance, plastic handles sliding dangerously in her grip. She wobbled, eyes widening.
Wumuti reacted instantly.
She stepped forward, caught the bags mid-fall, and transferred them into her own arms before Muti could even protest. The weight surprised her—multiple bags, uneven, awkward.
Muti blinked up at her.
“Oh.”
Wumuti sighed, jaw tight. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“I told you,” Muti said sweetly. “I’d topple.”
Wumuti looked down at the collection of bags now hanging from her arms. Then at Muti, who was suddenly very empty-handed.
“This is not—”
“You’re so reliable,” Muti cut in, beaming. “I feel very safe around you.”
Wumuti pressed her lips together.
Against her better judgment, she adjusted her grip and started walking toward the café Muti had pointed out earlier.
Muti followed, practically bouncing beside her.
The café was warm and softly lit, the smell of coffee and pastries filling the air. Wumuti set the bags down carefully by a small table, shoulders relaxing just slightly now that the weight was gone.
Muti ordered without hesitation—something sweet, something colorful. Wumuti ordered black coffee.
Of course she did.
They sat across from each other, the table suddenly feeling too small.
Muti rested her chin in her hands, watching Wumuti over the rim of her cup with open interest.
“You know,” Muti said, voice lighter now, “you carry things like it’s your job.”
“It’s called being capable.”
“I like it.”
Wumuti took a sip of her coffee, eyes fixed on the cup.
She told herself this was temporary.
Just coffee.
Just politeness.
Just helping someone who clearly couldn’t manage her own shopping bags.
And yet—
She didn’t stand up to leave.
—
By the time they finished their drinks, the sky outside had softened into late afternoon hues, sunlight stretching low between buildings. The café had thinned out, the noise settling into something gentler.
Wumuti checked her watch out of habit.
“I should go,” she said, standing and reaching for the bags again.
Muti popped up immediately. “Same.”
They stepped back out into the mall, walking side by side. This time, Wumuti automatically picked up most of the bags without comment, adjusting them in her hands like it was the most natural thing in the world. Muti noticed—and smiled to herself—but didn’t say anything. She knew better than to push that particular moment.
They reached the parking area, the echo of footsteps and distant engines filling the space.
Wumuti paused near her car.
“…Where do you live?” she asked, tone casual but deliberate.
Muti blinked. “Huh?”
“I can drive you,” Wumuti clarified. “You clearly shouldn’t be trusted with that many bags on public transport.”
Muti didn’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
Immediate. Certain. Like she’d been waiting for it.
Wumuti glanced at her, one corner of her mouth lifting despite herself. “You know,” she said, unlocking the car, “most people would at least pretend to refuse the first time.”
Muti slipped into the passenger seat without a second thought, arranging her skirt and buckling in happily.
“What’s the point of saying no,” she said, smiling brightly at Wumuti, “when I plan to be your fixed passenger princess since the day we met?”
Wumuti froze—hand still on the door.
Then she laughed.
Not loud. Not unguarded. Just a short, surprised chuckle that slipped out before she could stop it.
“You are unbelievable,” she said, closing the door and moving around to the driver’s side.
Muti watched her through the windshield, chin resting in her palm, heart light.
Wumuti started the engine, eyes focused firmly ahead as she pulled out of the parking space.
“You assume far too much,” she said.
Muti hummed. “I’m usually right.”
The drive itself was quiet—but not uncomfortable.
Muti filled the silence in small, harmless ways. Commenting on the playlist. Pointing out places she liked passing by. Talking about how tired her students had been that day, how one of them insisted on hugging her leg before she left.
Wumuti listened.
She didn’t interrupt. Didn’t rush. Just drove, steady and controlled, occasionally responding with brief remarks that told Muti she was paying attention.
When they finally stopped in front of Muti’s building, dusk had fully settled in.
Wumuti stepped out first, retrieving the bags from the back and handing them over carefully.
“Don’t run,” she said flatly. “And don’t overload yourself.”
Muti accepted them, fingers brushing Wumuti’s for just a second longer than necessary.
“No promises,” she said softly.
Their eyes met.
Something lingered there—unspoken, unignored.
“I’ll text you,” Muti added, already smiling like she knew the answer.
Wumuti hesitated.
“…Good night, Muti.”
It wasn’t a yes.
But it wasn’t a no either.
Wumuti had just settled back into the driver’s seat.
The engine was running, turn signal clicking softly as she prepared to pull away. She told herself—firmly—that this was where the evening ended. A clean line. A reasonable boundary.
Then—
Tap. Tap.
She froze.
Another knock, light but insistent, against the driver’s side window.
Wumuti turned her head.
Muti stood there, bags set carefully on the ground, purple hair catching the glow of the streetlights. She looked suddenly serious in a way she hadn’t all evening—eyes steady, lips pressed together like she’d made a decision she couldn’t take back.
Wumuti hesitated for half a second.
Then she rolled the window down.
“Muti—”
She didn’t finish.
Muti leaned in before another word could be said, one hand bracing against the car door as the other reached up. Her fingers curled into the collar of Wumuti’s coat, gripping just enough to pull her forward.
And then she kissed her.
It wasn’t tentative.
It wasn’t rushed either.
It was deliberate—warm, certain, full of everything Muti had been holding back for weeks. The kind of kiss that stole the space between them entirely, that left no room for doubt.
Wumuti inhaled sharply against it, startled—
—and then she kissed back.
Her hand came up instinctively, fingers curling at Muti’s wrist, steadying her, grounding them both. The kiss deepened, slow and unhurried, the world outside the car fading into nothing but breath and closeness and the unmistakable truth of it.
Time stretched.
Street noise dulled. Thoughts scattered.
When they finally pulled apart, it was only by inches, foreheads nearly touching, breaths uneven.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Muti smiled first—soft this time, almost shy.
“Good night,” she said quietly.
Wumuti swallowed, eyes searching Muti’s face like she was trying to memorize it.
“…Good night,” she replied.
Muti stepped back, retrieving her bags, glancing once more before turning toward her building.
Wumuti rolled the window up slowly.
She didn’t drive away right away.
She sat there, hands resting on the steering wheel, heart beating far too fast for someone who prided herself on control.
And for the first time since they met—
She didn’t tell herself it was nothing.