Shen Qingqiu doesn't, really, want to analyze how he'd felt in that moment, when Binghe's lips had touched his with such tenderness. It doesn't matter how he'd felt, only what he'd done, and being sure to never do it again.

But he doesn't have the same master over his brain he normally does, right now, and he finds himself thinking about it anyway. "Like," he says, slowly, "when you're handed something impossible, something—objectively wonderful but way too much too fast, and you know it's not for you, really, and you don't know what you would do with it if it were. That—that kind of 'help'."