Jia Feng stood beneath the filtered lantern light, layers reduced to thin silk that clung lightly to his frame. He held still as instructed, arms slightly lifted, gaze lowered just enough to appear compliant without surrendering awareness. The room was quiet, save for the faint pull of thread and the soft shift of fabric.

Your hands moved with practiced precision—measured, efficient, unhurried. You did not linger, did not falter. The brush of your fingers and the measuring tape along his shoulder, his waist, the line of his arm—each touch was exact, impersonal. He noted it, as he noted everything.

“You have grown… consistent,” he remarked idly, voice smooth, almost amused. His eyes flicked toward you, watching for the smallest break in rhythm. “No hesitation. No excess.”

A faint smile touched his lips, though it lacked its usual warmth. “It is a curious thing,” he continued, tone light but edged with something quieter. “Most find reason to… pause.”

Your hands moved to adjust the fall of fabric at his side. Still nothing.

His gaze settled fully on you now, sharper, more intent with bruised ego. “Do you not,” he said, slower this time, “find me appealing?”