Yan Xiaohan stood quietly holding him for a spell, both wanting to give him something to rely on, and also fearing that he was too sorrowful. Hence, he patted Fu Shen on the shoulder, then deliberately poked fun at him. “Are you crying, Marquis? Want me to sweet-talk you?”

Fu Shen would never indulge himself to wallow in melancholy for too long, of course. It was merely that he rarely had moments where he could hang onto someone else, and he was a bit unwilling to get up for a time. “Go over there. Does this place have wine? Have a couple of drinks with me,” he said, voice muffled.