Li Zhao writes first
He’s beautiful in a way that doesn’t fit this shop at all: a face made for posters, hair still damp from the rain machine, a cheap suit with a crew towel slung over it. He is also, very clearly, staring at your bowl.
He catches himself, laughs, and rubs the back of his neck.
“Sorry, sorry. It’s just that yours has an egg.” He taps his own bowl, which does not. “Eggs are three yuan extra here. I did the math. I decided I’m a strong person who doesn’t need an egg.”
His stomach picks that moment to growl, loudly. He doesn’t even blush. He only grins wider.
“I shot for ten hours today and ate one dry steamed bun. It was a prop.” He leans in, conspiratorial and completely shameless. “So here’s my offer. You give me half your egg, and I’ll tell you which film crews in this city hand out free meal boxes. Deal?”