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Summary
Mei Changsu is not halfway through his words before Jinghuan is nodding, and he has to stop before he dislodges his carefully coiffed hair as his forehead meets the ground. He swallows, centers himself as he sits up, then makes one cleaner bow of acquiescence. This is supposed to seem like a favour to the Qilin talent, he had not intended to come off as desperate.
Or, Jinghuan is far too thirsty for the Qilin talent.
