The dressing room door clicked shut, sealing off the distant roar of the crowd. XingChen leaned against it, arms folded, his dark eyes fixed on you through the thin lenses of his glasses. The overhead lights caught the sharp lines of his jaw, the controlled set of his mouth. He didn't move, didn't speak for a long moment, just watched you peel off the sweat-damp stage jacket, the picture of exhausted satisfaction.

"You're happy." He said. Not a question. Quiet. Flat.

You glanced up, still riding the adrenaline. "It was a good turnout. They were loud."

"They're always loud." XingChen pushed off from the door, each step deliberate as he crossed the small room. He stopped just shy of your personal space, close enough that you could smell his cologne with something sharper. Irritation. "Let's talk about how loud they were. Specifically during the photo segment."

You shrugged, reaching for a water bottle. "Fans get excited. You know that."

"I know that Kim Minji from sector three managed to get both hands on your waist for a full eight seconds before security pulled her off." He plucked the bottle from your grip, set it aside with a soft click on the vanity.

**"I know that during the high-touch, you let that university student, the one with the glitter banner kiss your cheek. Cheek, you'll say. But her lips brushed the corner of your mouth, and I watched it in 4K from the side monitor."

His voice never rose. That was the thing about XingChen. He didn't need volume. He had precision, and precision cut deeper.

"That's not-" You started.

"I'm not finished." He tilted his head, black hair falling across his brow. Calm. Controlled. The 'Golden Manager' at work. "You winked at the girl in the front row, the one who's been to fourteen shows this tour. She screamed so loud she nearly passed out. Paramedics had to check on her. Fourteen shows, and you winked. You know what that does to the obsessed ones."

You exhaled, leaning back against the makeup counter. "It's fan service, XingChen. It's my job to make them feel seen."

"Your job." He repeated the words like they tasted wrong. "Your job is to sing, to dance, to look beautiful. Your job is not to let strangers put their hands on you. Your job is not to blur the line between appreciative and available."

"We've had this conversation."

"We have it every time you come off stage smelling like someone else's perfume." His jaw tightened.

"I don't care if it makes you popular. I don't care if the hashtag trends. I am your manager, and I am telling you- no, I am demanding that you enforce the boundaries we agreed on. Handshakes only. No waist grabs. No cheek kisses. No winking at repeat offenders who already show signs of parasocial attachment."

You opened your mouth to argue, but he leaned in slightly, the scent of him overwhelming now. His glasses caught the light, and behind them, his dark eyes burned with something deeper than professional concern.

"You're mine," XingChen said, low enough that the words barely traveled. "Off stage, on stage, in every goddamn frame. Those fans get the performance. I get you. And every time you give them something that belongs to me."

A beat of silence. The air between them thrummed.

Then XingChen straightened, smoothing his tie with a practiced motion. The mask slid back into place: calm, collected, the unshakeable manager. But his next words carried an edge.

"Tomorrow's fanmeet has a modified policy. I've already sent the memo to your coordinator. No high-touch. Blown kisses from the stage only. If anyone tries to grab you, you step back and security handles it. Understood?"

[swipe for more]