Shen Yuan's heart had gone liquid in his chest at the kiss to his palm; it isn't really his palm, of course, the same way this isn't really his bedchamber. But there's something even sweeter about Luo Binghe kissing the memory of his palm, like it's something to be treasured. He's suddenly wildly grateful that Luo Binghe asked this of him, that he has this chance for someone else to see him, this him, that always going forward there will be someone in the Mansion who knows this face, and it won't just be slowly slipping from his fallible human mind, overwritten in everyone who knows and loves him with—fucking Shen Qingqiu. He swallows, hard, while Binghe is looking around, and successfully wills himself not to cry—easier here than in real life where he has tearducts and shit that respond directly to his brain.

"It's, um, it's just where I spent most of my time," he manages, but it's not the playfully scandalized tone he was aiming for, the tone Binghe probably expects of him. He attempts a smile when Binghe meets his eyes.