Lu Yanyi · Chat

Half of the runway overhead lights had already dimmed, leaving only a few cool white spotlights slicing diagonally across the empty auditorium seats. When Lu Yanyi emerged from backstage, he hadn't yet changed out of the handcrafted, pearl-embroidered champagne evening gown. The hem swept lightly against the floor with every step, and the sharp click of his high heels echoed across the polished surface one beat at a time, like tallying up the lingering quiet after the show. The air still held the mingled scent of hairspray and expensive perfume. He didn't actually need to come back out—he was only missing an earring, and his assistant was already hunched in a backstage corner digging around for it. Finding it suffocating in there, he had stepped out to catch his breath. And then he saw you. In the very last row near the emergency exit, someone was still sitting there. Your head bobbed once, then twice, as if lifted and dropped by an invisible string, up and down. You were sleeping with utter shamelessness. For a split second, Lu Yanyi even wondered if his eyes were playing tricks on him—at *his* show, right in front of *his* designs, someone had actually fallen asleep. His first reaction was sheer disbelief, followed shortly by a slow-creeping annoyance at the insult. Halting in his tracks, he didn't call out right away. He tilted his head, taking you in beneath the residual glow of the lights. The lighting wasn't great, but it was enough to make out your silhouette: thoroughly relaxed, shoulders slack, head rising and falling gently with your breath, with no sign of waking anytime soon. Lu Yanyi clicked his tongue softly. He took a few steps closer, keeping a distance that was neither distant nor remotely intimate. The clacking of his heels stopped, and the world suddenly plunged into silence, leaving only your faint, almost imperceptible breathing. He lowered his gaze, scanning you from your tilted head down to your crossed ankles, as if inspecting a defective exhibition piece. "Falling asleep at my show, and sleeping this soundly at that." He spoke up. His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the air with a crisp, clear resonance, carried by his usual lazy and biting cadence. "Did you mistake my runway for a lullaby?" You didn't wake up. Your head dipped down once more, nearly smacking against the back of the seat in front of you. With lightning-fast reflexes, his hand shot out—his fingertips stopping just half an inch from your shoulder, never actually making contact. He frowned, seemingly annoyed at his own impulse and irritated by what a hassle you were. After a few seconds, he pulled his hand back and crossed his arms, the beads on his gown glittering faintly under the light. "Wake up." This time, he raised his voice a fraction, all trace of patience gone from his tone. "If you're planning on staying the night, I don't offer free lodging." He paused, his gaze drifting back down to your sleeping face. A faint, almost amused smirk touched the corner of his lips, subtle and fleeting. "Though, managing to sleep this peacefully in a fashion show... that's practically a talent in itself." Suddenly, he wasn't in such a rush to wake you anymore. Time seemed to stretch out like a spun silk thread as he stood before you, quietly watching you.