“You’re down to twenty-seven,” Qian mumbles, mainly to herself, as she leans to the side and begins to scribble down his waist measurement into his company log. “By the way, President Wu informed me the other day that when you have your measurements re-taken by me, that we should start you on body shape management. So, we’re going to start you on some waist trainers, okay, Yingtao?”

Awkwardly, Zitao stands still as the measuring tape falls delicately away from his skin where he’s holding his shirt up, exposing his toned, newly-lithe abdomen for her to measure. The statement sticks to his skin; he’s not sure if he’s ever heard of waist trainers before - it feels safer to assume that he hasn’t, and therefore, the newness feels quite frightening. “Will it hurt?” He asks her, wary that this waist training she speaks of will come with promises of beauty along with injury. 

Qian hesitates for a moment, he notices, and he takes mental note of it, for nearly each and every time she has hesitated with speaking to him, it has been symbolic of something that he may or may not be allowed to know. “It depends on the person,” she says. “Early waist training usually does not hurt, but late waist training - more severe waist training, I should say, may cause weight loss due to stomach shrinkage and lack of circulation. So, if President Wu decides that you only need a slight amount of training, then you should be fine.”

Zitao could roll his eyes, really, because there is a man as powerful and wealthy as sin, willingly and knowingly damaging his employees and even so much as putting their lives at risk. Somehow, the difference between the president that Zitao knows and the president that the company knows, feels enormous. “How aware is he that his actions and methods are detrimental to us?” He quips as he shakes his head, rolling his eyes back as he watches Qian reach into a cabinet drawer beside them and pull out what looks like a long, rectangular piece of fabric with bones every several inches. Is that what a trainer looks like? “Someone should tell him that this is dangerous for our precious little Yingtao to do.” 

“Don’t push it, missy,” Qian laughs as she checks the size on the trainer, glancing from its tag to Zitao’s measurement log and back. “Alright, so we’ll start you on a medium. This should bring you down to about… twenty-six inches and then we can move down to a small and continue training.”

He knows he should riot and outright refuse the training, for having a twenty-six-inch waist for a six-foot man is absolutely absurd and plenty unhealthy, and Zitao doesn’t want to even begin to imagine what it may do to his insides. “Alright,” he settles with quietly, knowing that this is just part of the job and that it’s all for a good cause. “Whatever works, I guess.”

Happy with the permission, Qian reaches forward to wrap the trainer around his abdomen. It fits weirdly like a corset - not that Zitao knows how a corset, fits, or anything, for it’s not like he had a shoot two months ago in a corset and a tulle skirt, or anything - but is much shorter in terms of coverage, simply wrapping around him like a back brace rather than extending to his bosom. When Qian does up the clasps in the front, she gives him permission to feel it and to give his two cents on the wear, and when Zitao smooths his hands over it, he notices that the bones do not stand out sharply the way they do in a corset and that it fits rather snugly albeit comfortably against his skin without feeling chunky or heavy. 

“The trainers work like corsets,” Qian tells him as she marks down the date of the beginning of his training in his company log, “just - you know, less harsh because corsets you can tie as tightly as you please. The trainers are limited by size and only alter the body if they have resistance. Once the body no longer resists, you need to size down.”

Oh, so it’s like that. Truth be told, it is a little uncomfortable to breathe, feeling as though his organs and lower ribs are being held in place at all times. “Do I have to keep it on all day?” He asks her, long-nailed fingertips curiously grazing the bones. 

Closing the cabinet drawer, Qian nods. “The only time you may remove it is when showering, sleeping, or modeling. During work and personal hours, you are to keep it on at all times under the president’s orders. If at any time the trainer feels loose or really begins to hurt, I need you to tell me, okay?”

Zitao quietly sighs, lowering the hem of his shirt as he turns away from the mirror. “What about when I do my aerobics for Grazia’s commercial?” He questions. “Do I have to wear it then, too?”

Although relatively well-prepared for most, if not all, things that this job could throw at him, there seem to consistently be more and more things that prove new and confusing for him, and at the present moment, he’s dealing with roughly three or four of those unpredicted nuances. Zitao likes to think that he’s quite skilled at braving most of what he’s had thrown at him, from learning how to properly conceal his own and how to get over the embarrassment of it, to having to learn how to model and look pretty with a broken ankle - yet nothing leaves him quite as worried as the unspoken threat of internal organ damage. He had held very little qualms about fracturing his ankle, for a physical injury will heal visually, but internal injuries may prove worse than they appear, and Zitao doesn’t like not knowing how his body is doing. 

Fortunately enough to give him a little bit of relief, Qian shakes her head, then, and says, “You can leave it off when you dance. It might make it too uncomfortable.” 

Zitao couldn’t agree more, considering the bones feel sharp in a way that might prove painful if he bends or twists a certain way out of the ordinary. Still, it does not yet feel as though it may already be detrimental to his organs, so he supposes he’s fine for now. “This seems stupid,” he mumbles to himself as he the trainer from over the cloth of his shirt, growing accustomed to how it feels beneath clothing. “Like, this seems completely unnecessary considering every woman’s body is different in shape and size.”

“Yeah, well,” the coordinator shakes her head as she lets out a rolling sigh, her shoulders and bosom rising and falling with the weight of the action, “this is what Mr. Wu says works, and what he says always goes. I’m serious, Yingtao - don’t push this. The president doesn’t take lightly to being defied.”

Oh, please, he could roll his eyes. Zitao knows better than anybody that their frightening company president would sooner likely kiss the ground the model walked on than cause him actual harm, especially after what occurred just this past Friday night. He wonders why he has yet to really see the Big Bad Wolf they all call President Wu - has he been sleeping right through the past eight months enough to entirely disregard the man’s abrasive behavior, or has he just not personally experienced it due to their undisclosed bias? 

As one of the president’s most favorited models, though, Zitao can’t help but feel high and mighty and quite invincible, actually, as he glances back at his reflection in the standing mirror and greets the sight of what the president has learned to fall for. “I’m not,” he states softly. “So - what’s for lunch today?”

Zitao both is and isn’t at all surprised when he rounds the corner of the wing toward the foyer and catches sight of a woman whom had stood at the front desk, lithe and pretty where she spoke to the secretary as though waiting for someone, and had only realized she had been waiting for him when the sound of his shoes against the polished floor causes her to glance to the side and illuminate in a happy expression at the sight of him. Although he’s never met this woman, he can’t help but feel confused as though he were supposed to know her - have they met? Judging by the joy in her expression, he can only assume they must know each other.

She approaches him rather than the other way around, dressed in slim-fitting jeans with flared legs and a ruffled blouse in a pewter shade, and extends an excited hand for him to shake. “Huang Yingtao?” She asks aloud, and Zitao knows his expression is twisting in confusion by the stress it puts on his facial muscles as he returns the gesture. 

“Don’t worry, we haven’t met. Zhou Jieqiong,” she introduces herself as a delicate thumb swipes over his hand as they part, her nails painted an attractive rosewood pink, “I’m one of the lead choreographers from Grazia - Executive Kim hired me to help instruct you on what to do regarding your collaboration with us, so from now on each and every day, I’m going to be your personal dance partner. Is that alright?”

 His hand hangs delicately in the space between them for only a brief moment before his senses settle back in and his confusion begins to thin out. For some reason, he had expected a male dance teacher and had been anxious about it this whole week; perhaps, he supposes, that may be due to the fact that a man was organizing and leading his collaboration and not a woman. It’s silly, he knows, but the knowledge that Executive Kim took extra care in hand-picking a female teacher for him warms him from the inside. “Yeah,” he nods, forcing a grin to creep across his lips. “Nice to meet you. How long have you been doing this, if that’s okay for me to ask?”

“Close to ten years,” Jieqiong tells him with a courteous nod, her hands folding down by her lap where she stands. “So, I should tell you how this is all going to work. The collaboration does not have a deadline, although we do hope to get it out by the wintertime. You will learn the choreography to perform and I will help you practice it and memorize it in hopes of ingraining it into you like a tattoo. Again, this is not a time-sensitive project - we will do this at your pace and we will take all of the time that we need, especially considering the fact that you have no previous aerobic experience.”

Quietly, he pouts a little bit. “So we’ll be practicing down in the gym?” He asks quietly, but Jieqiong manages to catch it.

“Actually,” she starts with a little smile, “your company president gave me full permission to use one of the studios on the very top floor - he said they’re not like the modeling studios? I’m not really sure.”

To himself, Zitao frowns, for he doesn’t know what those studios up there are like, either. Being not yet a member of the president’s prestigious circle, he hasn’t ever had a chance to find out what those studios are used for, but Zitao’s imagination could easily come up with a myriad of answers to that, and some of them ual in nature. “Okay,” he says with a nod. “Sounds good.”

She grins happily, then, her dark hair billowing down her shoulders sleekly. “Great,” she comments joyously. “I figure we could have our first practice today whenever you’re free? Let me know when a good time for you is in your daily schedule and I’ll be here!”

She’s extraordinarily nice, he notes to himself silently, and not in a deceptive way, either. Still, meeting new people and having to interact with them for elongated periods of time still brings him anxiety, for the prevalent fear that he will be caught never successfully ceases. “I should be free around four today,” he tells her because his afternoon shoots every day never really tend to stray far past four o'clock in the afternoon, and if they do, the occurrence is rare. “And - probably every day. Is that okay?”

“I can do that,” Jieqiong vows happily. “I’ll see you later today at four, okay, Yingtao? Studio two, top floor.”

Studio two, top floor. Zitao feels like sweating out of the sheer newness of the unknown studio. Due to it being on the top floor, he is additionally worried that the president may sneak in and make another move on him, and although very content with how Friday transpired, this is the last place where he would need the president to grow passionate. “I’ll see you then, Jieqiong-jie,” he forces a little smile and gives her a little wave, and the dancer bows courteously before she adjusts her shoulder bag and heads toward the elevators, likely to set up their studio for practicing. 

She does seem trustworthy enough for Zitao to whittle away his walls around her and show himself, to exercise in front of her and not expect judgment, for she has likely seen muscular and toned women before if she is a trained choreographer. 

He can only hope in the normalcy of the foyer, throat working in a swallow, that this project won’t be too embarrassing for him to execute. Besides, what more could they possibly throw at him that he hasn’t already dealt with and had to overcome on his own? Zitao isn’t even sure if his long-standing masculinity still exists after eight months in this place, for he remembers very well how he used to be the man who could never even stand the thought of wearing high heels and now does it as willingly as he would with anything that was second nature to him. Now, after eight months, he no longer feels afraid to be seen in them and no longer feels masculine, but at the same time, no longer feels non-masculine, either, and he’s not necessarily bothered by that. After eight months, Zitao no longer finds himself worrying about a little bit of body hair regrowth or the somewhat obvious curvature of his muscles which are uncommon for females.

After eight months, Zitao has learned how to be a masculine woman and an additionally feminine man, and he’s starting to quite like it, actually. It gives him a rush that he would mostly associate with the excitement and thrill of being in a costume. Somehow, Zitao has begun to enjoy this lifestyle.

That is when it doesn’t necessarily involve the confusing world of romantic intimacy and his inexperience in it, as well as the danger which comes with dabbling in such an area. Now that he has undeniable proof that he’s dug his own grave, Zitao isn’t so sure what he should do anymore, whether that be to continue the charade or cut it off and run away. That being said, he suddenly begins to feel nervous, as though he were .

Though, perhaps it is because he’s quite tired lately and is still a little bit hungry after his unfulfilling lunch due to his instilled diet. Yeah, maybe he’s just peckish and maybe that’s why it’s making his insides feel strained. Maybe he should get a drink.

Although never having been a ballerina in his life, Zitao takes quite well to ballet. 

Aerobic dance, as he finds out in Jieqiong’s definition, is not anything like those old jazzercise infomercials his mother used to watch when he was in elementary school, wherein Zitao would find her rhythmically exercising to the beat of an on-screen woman’s guidance. Rather, Zitao finds out that it is more so ballet mixed with delicate, pretty handsprings and bends, all of which he is already somewhat accustomed to due to his history of martial arts and the occasional tumbling class.

“Keep your heels off the ground,” she comments gently, comfortingly, and leans over to help him lift his weight onto his toes by guiding his hands. “With any form of dance, you want to keep most of your stress on your toes rather than the heels, for you will have better control and center stability that way. When you keep your stress on your toes, you can control your movements more. For example, at the transition from your jeté to your tour en l’air, you’re flattening your heels against the ground too much, so it’s causing you to stutter. See, you want to keep your movements light and airy so the focus can be on the ribbon rather than your footwork.”

Exhaling deeply, he lays his hands along the dips in the curvature of his waist as he catches his breath, skin glistening beneath the lights of the dance studio. It’s rather large and as roomy as he could possibly ask for, permitting him plenty of space to twirl about without running into anything. “Was I alright otherwise?” He asks shyly. “Like, other than that?”

He had expected Jieqiong to be quite assertive in her teaching and had expected her to be all-knowing and highly-expectant of him, but rather she is patient and flippant, actually, casual in a way that is approachable and comfortably familiar in her chic sweatsuit. Zitao can’t help but feel humored by the fact that their gender roles have basically switched, as Zitao is delicate and feminine in his pastel leotard whereas she is capably gender-neutral with her hair tied back and a brimmed cap on her head. Somehow, he would have expected her to dress similarly to him in something girly and attractive, but he supposes that truly talented artists do not need looks to prove their worth. 

Which, as she scans him up and down with a pleasantly unguarded look, makes him feel just a little bit better about being intently stared at. “Actually, yes,” she points out in a lilted tone, as though she hadn’t fully expected him to pull off the routine. “Of course, you are a little step-heavy, but once you learn to rely on your toes only, it’ll fix that really quick. My only advice otherwise would be to curl your hands when you are holding the ribbon and extend your arms a little bit more, that way it doesn’t make contact with your body and it also doesn’t accidentally tangle, you know?”

Glancing down at the ribbon handle in his hand, Zitao nods. “Should I go again?”

“If you want to, sure,” Jieqiong tells him kindly, “but we have been at it for forty minutes now. Are you sure you don’t want to break for now and grab something to drink? We can rehydrate and pick back up in fifteen.”

Zitao couldn’t agree more, especially considering how parched he’s become and how sweaty he feels. “Okay,” he agrees, and Jieqiong’s face alights in a smile. “I’ll, uh, probably stay here, though. Maybe work on my toe-stressing.”

“No, Yingtao, you can take a break,” she laughs. “I mean it, it’s okay. Here, how about this - I’ll head over to the cafeteria and get us some electrolyte drinks, and you can relax off to the sidelines and catch your breath, yeah?”

“Fine,” he sighs, turning on his heel and swiftly seating himself on the glossed wooden floor of the studio, reserving his fifteen-minute seat to wait for her return from the cafeteria. “But if my toe-stressing isn’t perfect by the time my deadline arrives, it’s on you,” he jokes, and the choreographer rolls her eyes as she laughs at him. “And by the way, grape is the worst flavor.”

“I take that as, if I get you grape, you’re quitting the project,” Jieqiong says as her eyebrows stress in humor. “Alright, I’ll be back. Don’t run anywhere too far, and don’t die, either.”

Zitao knows the walk to this wing very well. Although never having thoroughly explored it outside of heading to and leaving the president’s quarters, Zitao has made the journey many a time enough to know it like the back of his hand. Just simply taking the elevator down to the cafeteria and back would take nearly four whole minutes, and that doesn’t account for the time it takes Jieqiong to wind through the commissary and retrieve their drinks. So, taking into account the daily late-lunchtime traffic that normally slows him down by several minutes when having his lunch, Zitao estimates that she will be gone a total of six-and-a-half minutes. 

Given those thickened minutes, Zitao smirks to himself as he goes against her word and reaches for his ribbon stick once more. After all, this is for his mother, and Jieqiong cannot, within their legally-binding contract outlining the collaboration agreements, stop him from improving his performances. 

In the quiet of the empty studio, he takes a deep breath where he stands and arches his feet, preparing the ribbon in his hand. Right, so it’s just stepping with your toes, Zitao. You’ve done it before. Step after step.

Carefully, he begins to tiptoe to the beat of the imaginary music, having kept the studio in silence to not alert Jieqiong of what it was that he was doing. Nevertheless, he can still remember the airy, fluttering melody of the wordless ballad that he was given. The ribbon flows artfully from its handle as though an extension of his own energy, sleek pink satin that cascades around his body as he spins and bends, completing his jeté which melts into a graceful back-handspring, his muscles flexing as his world spins. 

When he comes back up in order to spring into his tour en l’air, however, a sharp pain radiates across the side of his head, rippling like a crack of thunder which shatters his concentration and causes him to wince as the ribbon stick clatters to the ground. Is he extremely dehydrated? Zitao is not one to normally get headaches. He tries to think about when the last drink he had was, which was likely this morning despite Jieqiong fetching him an electrolyte drink right now. Then again, when was the last time he really ate, either? Sure, he had an energy bar at lunch, but he had skipped breakfast and he doesn’t exactly remember if he’d eaten a full dinner last night, either. Ever since being put on the stricter diet and the regimen of trainers, Zitao doesn’t remember feeling hungry much at all.

To himself, he sighs as he blinks away vertigo and picks up his ribbon stick once more. He’s probably fine, but he should also probably take it a little bit easy until he gets some electrolytes into him. If anything, that will help more than regular water will. 

Inhaling through the nose, he decides to start again, and his wrist swivels to twirl the ribbon as his eyes flutter closed, imprinting the movements into his muscular memory. 

First comes the sequential spins, each abruptly off of his toes as he maneuvers the ribbon attractively around his upper body, sweeping the handle behind himself and bending his spine back. Concentrate, Zitao, he thinks to himself. Keep the stress of your weight on your toes, and don’t mess up the jeté.

He wonders what people would say if they saw him like this - devoted, undeterred, and femininely lithe in a pastel leotard and tights as his tied-back hair caresses his shoulders where it cascades down. He wonders what Luhan would say - despite it being nonjudgmental as Luhan likely has one of the most open minds Zitao has ever known of, he can’t help but wonder if his best friend would laugh and smile and appreciate the sight, or would joke about it and by saying the truss of his was visible in the folds of the lycra blend. He wonders what Minseo would say, or even Jessica, two women of polar opposites both evil and benign. 

Then he gets a bizarre little thought as the ribbon flutters audibly around him - what if, in some weird alternate way, his friends from work were only being nice to him because of his prestige? What if they were only befriending him in order to reap the benefits that came with associating him, including growing closer to the president and spending more time in the Marketing wing?

Falling back into a handspring, he abruptly shoves the thought away. No, they wouldn’t do that. Minseo, of all people, wouldn’t do that to him. Letting out a broken, shaky little breath, he decides that he’s far too anxious to actually have fake friendships.

The imaginary music begins to reach its instrumental in the crevices of his mind, the sweet hum of the violins thrumming alongside the tinkling of the harp, warm and thick as he lands on his toes and glides across the waxy floor, flexible and experienced from over a month’s worth of training. With ample grace and his uni elegance, he sticks the landing as he dramatically arches his back and drapes the ribbon over himself as the imaginary song reaches its close, and he breathes out worn-out breaths with a heaving bosom as he lifts a hand to his sweaty face to brush his hair away.

Clap, clap, clap.

Startled, Zitao nearly jumps out of his skin as the noise resonates throughout the spacious studio, loud against the vast acoustics of the uninsulated room, the ribbon stick falling from his hands and clattering noisily onto the wood. “Mr. Wu,” he says out loud, jittery hands guarding his upper as he takes in the sight of his boss, handsomely prostrate against the wooden door in a relaxed position, his hands meeting in gracious claps as he soaks up the sight of Zitao’s work with warm eyes and slicked-back hair. “How - how long have you been standing there?”

Smoothly, the man steps forward from his spot against the door and strides casually across the studio, diminishing the space between them with long black slacks and a buttoned blouse in minted silk, strikingly soft and at the same time sensual as Zitao has never really seen the man in colors other than darks and primary whites. “Not very long,” the president swiftly tells him. “I came in after your attitude derrière.”

Although not experienced enough to know how to choreograph markers into songs, Zitao remembers exactly where the attitude had been in the choreography - it had been merely several seconds into the bridge of the song, near the end just after the halfway mark, where he had reached back as his leg swung up behind him and had wound the ribbon around the flat of his slipper with a bawdy little flick of the wrist.. The president had watched him, surreptitiously and intriguingly, for a whole minute. “Oh,” he mutters, eyes shifting about as he reaches down to pick up the ribbon stick from the floor. “Teacher Jieqiong was getting me a drink, you see - and I just, uh… wanted to practice some more while she was gone.”

“I see that,” Yifan presents to him the shadow of a smirk when he briefly swipes his hands together as an elegant little mannerism. “Has anyone ever told you that you look absolutely ethereal when you dance?”

Zitao hasn’t, as a matter of fact, had anyone tell him that in his life so he would have to say that he doesn’t necessarily agree. “I’m not that great,” he chuckles nervously, trying to speed this conversation along before one of them grows soft again, for this is the worst place to share a kiss at the very moment. “Did you, um - did you need to speak to Jieqiong or something? Why are you…” 

Then, the man’s hands slide into his trouser pockets as he breathes out a deep sigh, merely several feet away from the model and close enough to permeate the nearby air with the scent of his perfume. “No, actually,” he says as he meets the model’s eyes. “I, matter-of-factly, came to speak to you. I… would like to apologize for what I did Friday night.”

Oh. “Apologize?” Zitao mutters quietly, as though the word was foreign. Why would the president want to apologize for kissing him? Sure, it may not have been consensual at the beginning of the conversation, for Zitao was merely trying to save him the heartbreak later, but if he really had wanted to stop it, Zitao would have sooner killed him than let some stranger kiss him extendedly. “Why would you apologize?”

“Don’t be silly,” Yifan chides him quietly, his voice lowering as though he were afraid of getting caught. “I kissed you without your permission, for I did have quite a few drinks and I was under the influence, regardless of it not at all being a valid excuse to invade your personal space that way - ”

“It’s okay,” he interrupts, and the man’s words fall silently into the air’s abyss. Zitao’s safety blanket has long since been shredded, so there is no longer any salvation to be redeemed from remaining abstinent. “I just… if I had really wanted to stop you, I would have. It’s okay, really.”

Despite the reassurance, the president doesn’t look anymore convinced as he stares at him with wary eyes, the emotions in his gaze tumultuous and shifty as they all intertwine restlessly. “It isn’t,” he shakes his head. “I’m being serious, Yingtao - I overstepped an important line and I need to be held accountable for that. I went against your word and forced you to kiss me, and you are allowed to agree with this. I will repent for what I’ve done to spare you of any discomfort.”

“I said it’s fine,” Zitao mutters lowly, cheeks pinking as his fingers intertwine. Suddenly, the ribbon feels weighted in his hands, and he feels as though the stick were a weapon.

“Are you sure?” The president presses in a low tone, inching a half-stride closer which causes Zitao to glance away shyly as their proximity diminishes quickly. “I mean it. This is your chance to tell me that I have done wrong.”

Zitao knows far too well, by now, that the man’s body language doesn’t always match what he says. On the surface, he is resisting and is trying to give the model space - he appreciates it, deep down, yet beneath the ebb of their feelings is the featherlight, seductive of fingertips up his spine which causes him to shudder and arch, chest raising when he lets out a soft little gasp. Hook, line, and sinker. 

“I - I mean it,” he struggles timidly, getting a mere moment of independent comfort before he finds himself being pulled flush against the man’s warm, broad chest despite his inhibitions to remain neutral, but he’s already long since crossed the line. “S-sir,” he stutters. “What are you doing?”

Hesitant in response, the man’s fingers glide up his sides and over the soft ridges of his ribs, as Zitao’s lungs fill and his body arches into him at the ticklish feeling, alighting his nerves in gooseflesh and raw sensitivity. “You’re getting thinner,” Yifan comments subtly, unhappily, as the crease between his tapered brows deepens. “I don’t like it. Have you not been eating?”

His eyebrows furrow, then, for he hadn’t expected of all things to come, for it to be a comment about his weight. Especially not, he must add, considering that it was the president’s own orders for him to shed pounds in the footsteps of this career. “I mean - I’ve been dieting like you told me,” he tells him, “but it’s… not a lot of food. I - I don’t really remember to eat that often. I just… forget, but when I do eat, it’s a lot of water-weight vegetables, and… some proteins…” 

Zitao knows he should be eating better - despite being on a diet, he knows he has not been eating solely due to his stress, for it’s begun to have a wicked inclination to ruin his appetite when he finds himself overwhelmed. That being said, Zitao has not even been following the guidelines of his diet - rather, he’s been eating a third of his recommended dietary calories, which had only been a rough thousand to boot. He knows he is endangering himself with only ingesting three-hundred calories each day, but he can’t help it and he knows, should anybody find out, that it absolutely cannot be his mother. 

As though he knows that the statement is a farce, the man sighs as he shakes his head in disapproval, gentle fingertips brushing through the model’s hair. “You need to eat more,” the president scolds him carefully. “Remember to eat dinner tonight, please. Yes?”

“I can try,” the model sighs, “but no guarantees. It’s just… really stressful right now. I don’t really want to talk about it.”

He hadn’t intended for it to come out so brusquely, vaguely rude as he shies his eyes away and yet just as simplistic and soft as he had always been. The man falls silent as his expression tenses and his thumb traces the line of Zitao’s ribcage in disdain. “Let me take you out for dinner, then,” Yifan offers boldly, brushing the model’s hair out of his face. “My treat. You will not have to abide by your corporeal diet when in my care.”

Not having expected it, Zitao’s eyes widen. “Mr. Wu?” He asks softly. “Isn’t that quite unprofessional?”

“It was not a request, Miss Huang,” is what he