Re-threading

Two Days Before the Runway Show – Studio Xuanzhi

The mood in the studio had shifted—less tension, more anticipation. Whispers flew between interns like fabric through a sewing machine.

“He’s back?”

“After that fight?”

“I heard Zhan apologized. Xiao Zhan, apologizing.”

In the fitting room, Wang Yibo stood shirtless, arms raised as Lena helped him into the custom-tailored finale suit—a structured black-and-gold ensemble that made him look like a futuristic emperor.

“Fits like second skin,” Lena murmured.

“That’s because it was made for me,” Yibo replied, smirking.

From the corner, Xiao Zhan watched silently, arms crossed. His eyes were sharper than ever—but today, there was no venom in them. Just focus.

“Try walking it,” Zhan finally said.

Yibo stepped onto the narrow practice runway. He walked—cool, graceful, with a hint of rebellious sway. He turned at the end with a subtle snap of his heel.

Zhan’s voice came softer than usual.

“Slower on the turn. Let the shoulders speak before the shoes do.”

Yibo paused, glanced at him.

“So, poetry now?”

Zhan didn’t smile—but a flicker of amusement passed through his eyes.

“You just need to hit the beat right. I design the rhythm, you perform it.”

Yibo nodded once, then walked again—this time, smoother. They both knew it was perfect.

Later That Day – Fabric Room

Xiao Zhan sat sketching adjustments to a coat sleeve. Yibo wandered in, munching on a granola bar.

“Didn’t know designers sketched like they were fighting the paper,” Yibo said.

Zhan glanced up.

“Didn’t know models wandered into my workspace uninvited.”

“I’m not just a model,” Yibo replied, pulling out his sketchbook. He placed it next to Zhan’s without asking.

Zhan raised an eyebrow but said nothing as he flipped through Yibo’s pages.

“This one...” he pointed to a jacket. “Why the asymmetry on the collar?”

“It felt right. Like... rebellion. Controlled chaos.”

Zhan looked at him, surprised.

“You design from instinct?”

“I design from feeling. You?”

“I design from precision. Architecture. Math.”

They both laughed—short, but real. A shared understanding began to weave between them.

That Night – Rooftop of Studio Xuanzhi

The skyline of Beijing blinked around them as they sat on the rooftop, a blanket of stars muted by city lights.

Yibo brought two cans of cola and offered one to Zhan.

“No champagne?”

“Not my style,” Yibo shrugged. “Besides, soda’s nostalgic.”

Zhan took the can, studying him.

“You’re more complex than you act.”

“You’re more sensitive than you pretend,” Yibo countered.

A pause. The wind rustled.

“Why does this collection matter so much to you?” Yibo asked quietly.

Zhan took a long breath.

“It’s the first one since my mother passed. She used to sit beside me, sewing patches on my old clothes, even when she was tired. Every stitch had love in it. I wanted this show to feel like that.”

Yibo didn’t reply immediately.

“Then let’s make it feel that way. I’ll walk it like she’s watching.”

Zhan looked at him, his usual mask cracked.

“Thank you.”

The Next Morning – Final Rehearsal

During the full-team rehearsal, Huang Ming—casting director—watched Yibo on the runway with narrowed eyes.

“He’s different now,” Huang muttered to Lena.

“They’re syncing,” she replied. “Designer and muse. Needle and thread.”

After his walk, Yibo stepped down, breath steady, as Xiao Zhan approached him.

“You missed a half-step near the end,” Zhan said.

“You gonna yell at me again?”

Zhan’s lips twitched.

“No. I’m going to show you how to fix it.”

And for the first time, Xiao Zhan reached out—physically guiding Yibo’s posture, positioning his shoulders with gentle pressure, adjusting the angle of his step.

Yibo didn’t pull away.

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