Oh, great, Luo Binghe's only idea about what he looks like was when he was an annoying, prepubescent teen. It's the injustice of that, as much as his reassurances and the warm comforting presence of his body, that lets Shen Yuan relax enough to let the Shen Qingqiu of him melt away.

They end up in Shen Yuan's bedroom, just as it existed before he died: the books and games in their bookshelves, the posters on the walls--one or two, okay, several of Binghe himself. The window, with the rainy street beyond, high-rises and bus stations and endless streams of people, going about their daily lives. And when he steps back from Binghe it is as Shen Yuan, third son of the Shen family of the Shanghai elite, dressed in t-shirt and jeans, his face and form cobbled together from his own memories, looking uncertainly up to meet Luo Binghe's gaze through his awkward, unfashionable glasses.