Shen Yuan pats Sagramore on the knee and then leaves his hand there. They're both in jeans, which strikes him suddenly as funny; they might be familiar to Shen Yuan's soul, but they're certainly not to his body, and there's something a little charming and absurd about a man from medieval Europe and a made up cultivator drinking and cuddling in denim.

"Listen to us, though, now we're both maudlin," he teases, and picks up the wine, pouring the last splash into his cup.