#mumu

you only wear it when you really don’t care.

the mumu is soft, airy, printed with giant orange flowers and swirls that don’t match anything in your closet. it’s got short sleeves, big vibes, and enough loose fabric to double as a blanket. you grew up seeing women wear them around the house like it was second skin, and now it’s your go-to comfort armor — the thing you throw on when it’s too hot for leggings but you still wanna feel swaddled.

you didn’t expect him to become its biggest fan.

chan sees it once and it’s like something rewires in his brain.

you walk into the kitchen that morning, bonnet on, rubbing sleep from your eyes, wearing the mumu like you have a thousand times before — and he freezes. cereal box in one hand, mouth slightly open, brain buffering.

“…baby?” he says, blinking.

“hm?”

“what is that?” his voice is soft. curious. borderline reverent.

you look down, confused. “…my mumu?”

he sets the cereal box down like he’s seen a vision. “i’ve never seen you wear this before.”

“i wear it all the time?” you frown. “just usually when you’re not here.”

he takes two steps toward you, like you’re gravity itself. “it’s so—wait. hold on. hold on.”

he gently reaches out and pinches the fabric at your waist, lifting it slightly.

“look at this material,” he says dramatically. “it’s giving cloud. it’s giving auntie-chic. it’s giving i run this household and you better not ask for nothing while i’m watching my stories.”

you stare at him. “chan.”

“no, i’m serious,” he grins. “this might be the best thing i’ve ever seen on you.”

you laugh, trying to walk away, but he blocks your path. “i look like a tired auntie.”

“a sexy tired auntie.” he nods.

you give him a look. “you’re ridiculous.”

“i’m honest,” he shrugs, eyes trailing the drape of the mumu again. “this is gorgeous. why don’t you wear this more?”

“because it’s not for fashion,” you say, plopping on the couch. “it’s for house stuff. i clean in it. nap in it. overheat in it.”

he follows you like a shadow, sitting way too close, eyes still locked on you like you’re a piece of art. “can you just… wear it always?”

you squint. “like, outside?”

“yes.”

“chan”

“okay fine, maybe not outside,” he grins. “but like… at home. every day. forever.”

you laugh so hard your bonnet starts sliding back.

from that moment on, it becomes a thing.

he won’t shut up about it. every time you wear it, he does a whole bit.

“queen mumu has arrived,” he says once, bowing low.

“oh no,” you groan, “not again.”

“shhh,” he whispers. “you must be respected in your robes of power.”

you start catching him trying to wear it when you’re not looking. you leave it on the back of the chair and come back to find him in the living room with it half-draped around his shoulders like a cape.

“this thing is breathable,” he says, fanning himself. “i get it now.”

you just roll your eyes. “that’s why we wear it in hot weather. welcome.”

he pouts when you take it back.

and then; he starts showing pictures to the boys.

one day you walk in and hear him talking to felix on speaker.

“nah, bro. she has this mumu, right? and i swear to you—i don’t know what magic it holds—but i lose all motor function when she wears it. like my knees go weak. it’s like i’m under a spell.”

you turn the corner, squinting. “chan.”

he turns to you, eyes wide. “she’s wearing it right now,” he whispers. “i’m not lying, lix. she’s glowing.”

felix is laughing on the other end. “send a pic.”

“no!” you shout. “absolutely not.”

chan’s laughing so hard he drops the phone.

₊˚⊹ ᰔ

you try hiding it one day just to see what he’ll do.

he notices immediately.

“where’s the mumu?” he asks, walking around the apartment like he lost his dog.

“in the wash,” you lie.

“you sure? i can help find it. i’ll hand-wash it myself. steam it. iron it. i’ll build a shrine.”

you throw a pillow at him.

eventually, he gives up on trying to steal yours and just buys one for himself.

yes. bang christopher chan orders himself a mumu.

he finds a unisex one online, big and breezy and royal blue. when it arrives, he puts it on and stands in the hallway like he’s waiting for a rating.

“well?” he says. “how do i look?”

you blink.

“you look… blessed.”

he grins wide. “matching mumu night?”

you cover your face, but you’re laughing. “i can’t take you anywhere.”

“that’s fine,” he says, pulling you into a hug. “we’re not going anywhere. just you, me, and the mumus.”

the two of you end up curled on the couch, matching house dresses, bonnet and bedhead and all. he keeps running his fingers through the fabric, like he still can’t believe how soft it feels.

“you really love this thing, huh?” you whisper, resting your head on his shoulder.