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The sky over Bridon was the color of old steel, sagged low and metallic, clouds stretched taut like overexposed film. Xia Fei hated mornings like this—the kind that dulled and made the world feel bleached and hollowed out.
Still, he showed up. He always did.
“You’re early again,” the receptionist called as he passed through the glass doors of the studio lobby, heels clicking over polished stone, his coffee still steaming in hand.
“Somebody’s gotta be dependable,” Xia Fei replied with a smirk, tossing his bag over his shoulder, eyes half-lidded as he flicked his coffee cup in a half-salute. His voice was smooth, tinged with amusement. He didn’t smile—not really—but it was enough to make her flush and duck her head like he'd handed her something intimate.
He was wearing one of his favorites today—a loose cropped sweater and flared black pants. His makeup was subtle: eyeliner smudged like purposeful carelessness and lips tinted with a thin layer of gloss to keep them moisturised.
Click.
The lights popped like summer fireworks above his head as he arched his neck just a little more, hand on his jaw, thumb grazing the lip. His stylist cooed a satisfied sound. The photographer said nothing, but the shutter didn't stop.
Click. Click. Click.
Xia Fei held the pose longer than necessary. Then slowly moved his hand to his hair, eyes angled down, lashes shadowing his cheekbones.
“Hold that,” the photographer murmured, voice barely audible over the thrum of fans and click-click-clicks.
Another burst of flashes.
“Alright. Fifteen,” the photographer called eventually.
Xia Fei nodded once and stepped off the white sweep of the backdrop. As he walked, he kept his posture loose, eyes half-lidded. He brushed past the racks of sequined blazers and sheer shirts. The lounge was dimmer than the main studio—soft lamps, plush couch, someone’s half-empty latte on the table. The scent of hairspray and coffee lingered in the air.
Xia Fei collapsed into the couch, shoulders sagging, the breath he let out sharp and silent.
He was scrolling idly through his phone—messages from Vein, updates from his manager, some edit a fan made of him and another model—when the door creaked open.
He didn’t look up at first. Not until the air shifted.
“Hey.”
He glanced up. Jiang. One of the lighting techs. Late 30s. Been around longer than most. Not someone Xia Fei had spoken more than five words to. Ever.
“Yo,” Xia Fei said.
“Just grabbing a cable,” Jiang said casually, stepping in.
The door clicked shut behind him.
“You good?”
“Peachy.”
Jiang smiled. It was crooked—not in a charming way, but in a way that didn’t quite match his eyes. He stepped further into the room, then too far, and sat down beside Xia Fei without asking. The couch creaked under his weight.
“You’re something else in front of the camera,” Jiang said.
He sipped his coffee. “Thanks.”
A beat.
“You ever consider doing more…adult stuff?”
Xia Fei’s eyes flicked up. “What,” he said, with a laugh that wasn’t a laugh.
Jiang chuckled too, but it didn't really reach his eyes. “Adult work,” he clarified, with a grin that made Xia Fei’s skin crawl. “I've got a friend. Pays triple what you're making now."
Xia Fei’s fingers stilled on the screen. He turned to look at him fully now.
“Not interested,” he said flatly.
But Jiang leaned closer.
“You don’t get it,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper that dragged across Xia Fei’s skin. “There are plenty of people out there who'd empty their wallets to see you and your pretty face passed 'round, sunup to sundown.”
The words hit like oil poured into Xia Fei’s ears. Slick. Uninvited.
Then the hand.
Hot. Heavy. Landing on Xia Fei’s thigh.
Fingers pressing, harder than a casual touch. The thumb moving. Sliding upward, slow and insinuating. The kind of touch that wasn't meant to be noticed. The kind that was meant to be endured.
Xia Fei didn’t flinch. Not visibly.
“You've got the look,” Jiang said. “You’d be a hit.”
“No.”
“Don’t be like that. Don’t pretend you’ve never used it to your advantage.”
The thumb slipped further. Pressed inward. Nearer to the seam of his pants.
That was it.
Xia Fei shoved him. A full-bodied push that knocked Jiang sideways. The couch groaned in protest.
“Touch me again,” Xia Fei said, low and deadly, “and I’ll break your fucking wrist.”
Jiang looked stunned for half a second, then smirked. “Didn’t mean to offend,” he drawled. “Models are always so sensitive.”
“Leave,” Xia Fei said.
Jiang raised both hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. No need to bite.” He rose—slower than necessary—and leaned in one last time, close enough that Xia Fei could smell the stale coffee on his breath.
"You’ll come around,” he said.
And then he left. The door clicked shut like the sealing of something venomous.
Xia Fei sat frozen. Coffee cold beside him. His stomach twisted in on itself like spoiled silk.
The shoot went on after.
Click click click.
But the images were empty. His eyes glazed. He barely heard the praise.
That night, back home, he pulled the lavender hoodie over his head like a shield. The fabric smelled faintly of detergent and old warmth.
When his manager buzzed the next day, he didn’t answer. The studio could reschedule. He wasn’t well, he said—stomach bug. A lie. An easy one. No one questioned it. Models were fragile, weren't they?
The second day, Vein messaged.
Xia Fei, you left your charger. I’ll hold it hostage unless you want to negotiate terms.
Also, the black and white shoot came out decently. I signed off on the selects. Let me know if you hate them.
Xia Fei read it twice. He thought about replying—just something brief. Thanks. That would have been easy.
Instead, he turned off the read receipts and curled deeper into his blanket.
The apartment was too quiet without music, but sound grated against him. Even the hum of the refrigerator felt personal, accusatory. Xia Fei lay on his side on the couch, hoodie hood pulled over his head like a shroud, trying not to breathe too loudly.
His phone buzzed again the next morning.
Xia Fei. Not to be intrusive, but you haven’t replied in almost 36 hours. Is something the matter?
If you’re ill, I can bring medicine. If you’re dead, please haunt someone else. I’m too busy.
Joking. Mostly.
He stared at the texts. The screen cast a blue glow over his face that made his skin look corpse-pale. His thumb hovered, then dropped the phone onto the mattress.
Fuck off.
He didn’t mean it. Not to Vein. But it bloomed sharp in his chest anyway, an instinct.
He felt disgusting.
It had nothing to do with hygiene. He’d showered twice—furiously, obsessively—scrubbing under his nails like filth had seeped into his blood. But it wouldn’t come out. That moment in the lounge kept playing behind his eyes like a commercial he never asked to see.
That voice.
That hand
That smile.
The flashbacks came in flashes: the couch, the low light, the heat of another body near his own.
Xia Fei hissed under his breath, kicked the coffee table hard enough to knock over a half-empty water bottle. He screamed in his pillow. Grounding. Better than the burning in his skin.
He’d heard worse. Been touched worse. Back when he was newer. He had a portfolio now. A manager. An agency that posted his photos with glowing captions and praise.
He thought he'd moved past that.
He gritted his teeth. He wanted to punch a wall. He wanted to crawl out of his own skin. He wanted Jiang to be hit by a goddamn bus.
His phone buzzed again.
Xia Fei. I’ve confirmed with the manager that your Friday shoot has been postponed. You are not required to speak with me, but if something has occurred, I will listen.
We can talk about it. I can make time. I am not asking as your co-worker.
That was my attempt at emotional intelligence. You may now laugh at me.
Xia Fei stared at the messages until the screen dimmed.
He didn’t reply.
He couldn’t.
What would he even say?
Hey, someone tried to buy me like a fucking product. Again.
Hey, I thought I had value now. Turns out it’s still just the body.
Hey, you were wrong when you said people saw me clearly.
No. He wouldn’t say that to Vein.
He didn’t want Vein to know. He didn’t want anyone to know. Because it was humiliating. Because he’d frozen.
He was curled up on the kitchen floor when the next message came in hours later.
I do not wish to be overbearing. However, you are my friend. I do not enjoy guessing your silence.
The phone buzzed again.
I’m coming by tomorrow if you don’t answer.
Xia Fei stared at the message.
Then typed:
I'm fine.
Deleted it.
Typed again:
Don’t come.
Deleted that too.
Finally, after minutes of nothing:
Sorry. Just tired.
Vein didn’t reply right away. Good. Xia Fei didn’t want to keep pretending.
He dropped the phone again and curled tighter—cool tiles hitting his skin.
His feet were cold. His face was hot. His chest ached with something stupid and loud.
You let it happen, some small, sharp voice inside him whispered. You could’ve gotten up faster. Could’ve yelled. Slapped him. Done something.
He hadn’t. He’d frozen. Just like the first time. Just like every time.
He didn’t leave the apartment all week.
And the hoodie stayed on.
Even when he slept.
Especially when he slept.
The knock on the door came like a question that refused to go away.
Knock.
Pause.
Knock-knock.
Xia Fei didn’t answer. He was lying sideways on the couch, still wearing the hoodie, face half-hidden in the crook of his arm. The sun had shifted across the room and now poured through the blinds like syrup, slow and golden and unwanted.
Another knock at the door. Light, then firmer.
Xia Fei didn’t move.
He was slumped on the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, blanket curled around his knees. His hair was a mess, and his face had gone puffy from the combination of dehydration and three days of not speaking aloud.
He already knew who it was.
Cheng Xiaoshi was the only person who knocked like that.
“Xia Fei?” came the voice through the door. “It’s me. I brought food,” Cheng Xiaoshi added, gently. “I don’t know if you’ve eaten. It’s—uh, not fancy. Just dumplings. I can leave it by the door.”
“I know you’re in there,” Xiaoshi added again, quieter now. “I saw your lights on. Don’t worry. I’m not trying to force anything. Just…Vein said you’ve been holed up. And you didn’t text back. He didn’t say much, but I got worried. And when I get worried I kinda…show up. Sorry.”
Silence.
Xia Fei stared at the coffee table. His phone died sometime yesterday. He hadn’t plugged it back in.
“I just want to know you’re okay,” Cheng Xiaoshi said, this time almost a whisper.
The words dropped like a rock in Xia Fei’s chest. Shit. Shit. He didn’t want to be reached. He didn’t want to see anyone.
But the door stayed quiet. The voice didn’t push.
A long pause.
Then, slowly Xia Fei stood up.
It took him longer than it should’ve. His knees ached, and the blanket dropped to the floor in a heap. He dragged himself to the door like his feet weren’t quite attached to him.
He cracked it open. Xia Fei pressed the heel of his palm to his eye.
“Not a great week for me, if you haven’t noticed.”
There was a pause. The next words were softer.
“I noticed.” Xiaoshi smiled softly, holding up the paper bag. “Still hot.”
Xia Fei stared at the bag as he stepped aside for Xiaoshi to enter.
They sat in silence for a few minutes. Xia Fei didn’t eat. Just held the bag on his lap like it might anchor him to the present.
“You don’t usually ghost people,” Xiaoshi said, voice low. “I figured something happened.”
Xia Fei said nothing.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Xiaoshi added quickly.
“I mean—I’m not your boss or anything. I just…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You seemed like the kind of guy who always bounced back. And you’re not bouncing.”
Xia Fei let out a laugh—short, humourless.
More silence.
“What happened?”
Xia Fei shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Xia Fei.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not.”
Xia Fei’s throat bobbed. He turned his face away. His fingers twisted the paper bag so tight it started to tear.
“…One of the crew guys from the last shoot,” he finally said, voice cracking. “He came into the lounge. Said I could make money doing..." His eyes went blank. "Adult stuff.”
Xiaoshi’s breath caught.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered first—but then the words broke loose, trembling out of him. “Xia Fei, I’m so sorry.”
Xia Fei looked away, exhaling a little. “It’s not your fault.”
“I told him no,” he continued, voice rising slightly. “I told him no, and he—he touched me. Not a lot, but enough. And the worst part? I didn’t even yell. I just sat there like some stupid mannequin and let him talk to me like that.”
He wiped his face with his sleeve. His eyes were red now, voice shaky. He looked up at Xiaoshi, finally.
“I felt filthy. Like I deserved it.”
Then, Cheng Xiaoshi’s expression didn’t soften. It hardened.
He stood up so abruptly the couch shifted.
“Who was it?”
“What?”
“The guy. What was his name.”
Xia Fei blinked. “Why?”
“Because if I ever see him, I swear to god I’ll—”
“Don’t.”
Xia Fei reached out, grabbing his wrist. “It’s done. I don’t need anyone fighting for me.”
“You didn’t deserve that,” he said, voice rough. “No one has the right to make you feel like that.”
Xia Fei let go of his wrist. Looked down at his lap again.
“…You’re the first person I’ve told.”
“Vein?”
“I thought about it. But he’d blow up. You’re…softer.”
They sat in silence again, but this time, it wasn’t empty. Xia Fei uncrumpled the bag and pulled out a dumpling, chewing slowly. He didn’t taste much, but it was warm. Solid. Real.
The dumpling was gone. Then another. Then another.
Xia Fei didn’t realize how hungry he was until he tasted nothing at all—just heat and texture, something his body needed but his mind couldn’t register. But each bite made the tightness in his chest ease just a little. Not vanish—just shift. Loosen. Enough to breathe.
Cheng Xiaoshi didn’t push. Just sat beside him, elbow on the armrest, scrolling absently through his phone with the brightness turned low.
Xia Fei leaned his head against the back of the couch. His eyes had stopped burning. His chest still felt raw, but there was something clean about it now—like the ache after crying, not the ache of holding everything in.
“I’ve had this since I was seventeen,” he said, quietly.
Xiaoshi looked up.
“Found it on a shoot. Someone left it behind. I was freezing and—” Xia Fei shrugged. “It fit. Sort of.”
He thumbed at the loose string.
“It’s stupid, but...every time I feel like shit, I come back to this thing.”
“It’s not stupid,” Xiaoshi said softly.
Xia Fei swallowed hard.
He looked down at the hoodie—lavender and faded, sleeves hiding the parts of him that felt ruined.
Later, Cheng Xiaoshi had drifted to sleep in the armchair nearby, one leg kicked out, head tilted back in the ugliest way possible. He snored softly. It made Xia Fei smile without meaning to.
The apartment was still quiet, but not empty anymore.
He rose quietly and moved to the bathroom.
When he peeled off the lavender hoodie, it stuck to his skin. He hesitated, fingers clutching the hem. It was the first time he’d taken it off in six days.
He stepped into the shower.
Let the water run. He scrubbed gently this time. Not pure. Just…reclaimed.
When he stepped out, steam curling around his bare arms, he dried off slowly, eyes landing on the hoodie he’d draped over the sink.
He picked it up. Paused.
Then folded it.
Not tossed. Just folded. Soft and deliberate.
He walked back to the living room where Xiaoshi had shifted in his sleep, murmuring something about Lu Guang and alarms and stop stealing my snacks.
Xia Fei placed the folded hoodie on the windowsill like it was just any other hoodie, where the afternoon sun was beginning to spill in.
The lavender in the light looked like washed lilac. Like memory softened by time.
He walked to the window and opened the curtain fully, letting the room fill with gold.
The lavender hoodie stayed where it was—not a hiding place.
Not a cage. Not protection, not shame.
Just a piece of fabric.
Just something he could let go of now.
He sat down on the couch, steam still rising from his skin.
And this time,
when the sun filled the room,
he didn’t hide.