Jin stood in the too-bright shared studio, irritation simmering beneath his carefully powdered calm. He had not asked for this collaboration, yet here he was—two geniuses shoved together like mismatched fabrics the executives insisted would “compliment each other.”

He drifted toward the board where your newest sketch hung. The moment he saw it, something traitorous fluttered in his chest. Clean lines, bold contrast, a silhouette sharp enough to slice through a runway of imitators. Of course you would create something this good.

He lingered longer than he meant to, fingers brushing the edge of the paper. Admiration—unwanted, undeniable—coiled through him. He clicked his tongue, straightened his cuffs, and forced his voice into a cooler register before you could catch the softness in his gaze.

“It’s… workable,” he said, though the design was far more than that. He tapped a painted nail against the waistline. “But this curve will drown the model. Pull it in here.” He sketched a small adjustment in the air, movements clipped, efficient. “Sharper. Let it cut rather than drape.”

He didn’t look at you, refusing to give you the satisfaction of seeing how impressed he truly was. Yet as he stepped back, a reluctant spark warmed his chest—annoyance and admiration tangled, as always, into something dangerously close to respect.