Staring over your glasses at the dress form, your eyes critically roved over all of the spots where you had left pins, created darts, cut slits, or marked directions into the muslin mock up.  It was Christmas Eve, you were tired, and wary of making any mistakes--given said tiredness.  The last thing that you wanted to do was unpin the thing only to discover that you hadn’t made a mark on some critical piece of seaming.  “Wait, did I account for the seam allowance?” you muttered, while turning the dummy to check. 

An under- (read: un) -paid, overworked intern at Valentino, you just wanted to start your last blouse sample, pack up, go home...and pass out for 24 hours.  The finishing--pressing the seams, installing the plackets, creating the buttonholes, sewing the buttons, installing the facings, etc.--could all wait until after Christmas.  Despite your tiredness, however, your hands itched to get a hold of that luscious cranberry shot silk zybeline.  The weighty fabric’s drape would work beautifully with the blouse design you had created.

“We need some help, here!”  A sharply stylish, if harried-looking, woman rushed into the shop, head swiveling practically 360 degrees in an impressive owl imitation.

“I’m sorry; everyone has either gone home, or upstairs to the party,” you said timidly.  You were (basically) a seamstress (...aspiring, at least), not a designer--completely unused to crowds, attention, or particularly loud noises.  

“You, there--can you sew?”

You froze, suddenly wanting to hide the tape measure around your neck.  Unfortunately, you were a horrible liar.  “Y-y-yes?”

“Perfect--bring him in!”

Grabbing you by the elbow (you hated that!), and dragging you away from your work, the painfully fashionable stylist (had to be, in those shoes) with the extremely loud voice pulled you toward several disturbingly tall men all in black, who, in turn, were walking towards you with the sorts of expressions that one might find more appropriate on the faces of soldiers during a black ops mission. 

“Guys, please.”

So preoccupied with staring at the (metaphorically?) flesh-eating giants heading toward you that you hadn’t even noticed the slightly shorter man in their midst until a pair of elegant, slender hands slid between the two men in front, easily pushing them aside.  

“I doubt that she’s going to eat me,” the smaller man said, his gentle voice a direct contrast to that of his stylist.  

Ignoring him, she gestured to you.  “Help him.”

“Help him...what?”

“Fix him.  Fix it.”

“What is the it...that I’m supposed to be fixing?” 

“Just look at him!”

You did.  And you saw.  

The man was wearing an absolutely delicious Valentino-crimson velvet three-piece suit with garnet buttons, a black shirt, and a black dupion tie--shot with cranberry threads.  His mid-heeled boots were black snakeskin, a black leather Daniel Wellington watch with silver accents adorned his wrist, and a two-tiered silver tie chain with twin dragon’s heads held down the points of his shirt collar.  A heavy silver lotus lapel pin rested against his chest, and the silver lightning bolt earring dangling from his left ear would have completed the festive--but still fashion-forward--look if the entire picture hadn’t been ruined by his wrists sticking out of his suit jacket like those of a backwater hayseed, and the fact that the jacket’s hemline was about three inches too high.  

“Who did this to you, baby?” you asked, almost in tears.

“My name’s Yixing,” the man said, amused.

“I was talking to the jacket,” you snapped.  “Take it off.”

“You haven’t even bought me dinner!” he protested.

“Yixing…” his stylist warned before turning to you.  “He has to make an appearance at the party in a half hour.  Can you fix it?”

“Well, my specialization is really in women’s clothes--”

“Great, thanks!” the stylist interrupted, dismissively waving a hand.  “Yixing, the jacket?”

“Alright jiejie,” he muttered, ing the garment, and easing it down his arms before handing it to you.  

Gently cradling the bespoke Valentino, you headed to where the men’s dummies were kept, eyeing Yixing over your glasses before choosing a size 34.  Lovingly sliding the still-warm coat inside-out over the dummy’s shoulders, you pinned it to the dummy, before taking a step back to note if anything else seemed off.  Nodding after finding everything in order, you headed toward your kit, and rummaged a bit.  For this, you thought, ripping open a package, you would break out a new seam ripper.

It’s what the jacket deserved.  

Walking back to the dummy, you decided to let down a sleeve first to see if there was enough extra fabric to take them out without having to add more.  Sliding the point of the seam ripper into the stitching holding the lining to the jacket, you held your breath before pushing the ripper through the first stitch.  The quiet pippipips of the stitches giving up the ghost were the only sound that you could hear as you carefully, painstakingly released the seam. “So, what happened with the jacket?” you asked, curious as to how anyone could have made such a careless mistake with such an important item, for such an (you guessed--from the bodyguards and all) important person.

“They mixed up my measurements with Luhan’s.” 

You looked up in surprise as Yixing’s mild voice drifted toward you.  He was alone, sitting at your workstation, idly flipping through your sketchbook.  “Where--”

“Jiejie went to see where my date is--she’s running late--and the bodyguards…”  Yixing shrugged.  “I guess that they don’t see you as much of a threat.  They said that they’ll be back after grabbing a proper bite to eat since,” he mockingly lowered his voice, “there’s never anything good at these parties.”

“Isn’t that a bit unprofessional?  I mean, they just left you alone with me, and a countless array of sharp objects?  I could be a stalker!”

“Nah, jiejie did a background check while you were talking to the jacket.”

“That fast, huh?”

He shrugged easily.  “She’s scary.  People tend to do what she asks.  Quickly.  Look at you.  You said that you specialize in women’s clothing, and yet, here we are.  What’s the difference?”

“Well, I wasn’t exactly scared of her--”

“No, what’s the difference between men’s and women’s clothing that made you nervous?”

“Me?  Nervous?” Throwing back your head, you tinkled an artificial laugh, before cutting it off and nodding to yourself. “Yes, of course I’m nervous, I’m terrified--I should have gone home earlier…”

“So…  Why so nervous?”

Pulling down the lining of the sleeve, and lovingly unfolding the velvet, you saw that you had at least a good two more inches to work with.  You’d have to try the jacket back on him before you started sewing to make sure, but you felt that the two extra inches should cover his wrists.  You moved on to the second sleeve.  “Men’s clothing--specifically men’s formal clothing is a lot more structured than women’s.  You have all of these long, flat planes, and sharp angles.  In a woman’s garment, you have more wiggle-ro