Instead, Henry Howard came back from outside, and as he passed the third row, he casually grabbed two napkins from the stack Quinn Shaw had placed on the corner of her desk. While wiping his hands, he asked, "Class committee, what is this?"

"Nail polish," Emily Shaw said, "black."

Henry Howard took it, twisted it open to take a look, paused, and then said, "Lend it to me for a bit."

Ethan Young was trying to catch up on sleep during morning self-study, lying down with his eyes closed but unable to fall asleep. The English teacher was leading them in reciting the vocabulary handbook, but everyone was reading at a different pace. At first, they were in sync, but after turning the page, it got more and more chaotic, some fast, some slow.

He kept his eyes closed and felt Henry Howard gently tap his hand.

Then a slightly pungent smell drifted over.

Ethan Young opened his eyes and saw Henry Howard carefully painting something on his fingernails: ""

Henry Howard just wanted to see what the kid would look like with it on, but after painting half a hand, he realized the visual impact was a bit much.

Ethan Young's nails were neatly trimmed, his fingers slender and well-defined.

The black nail polish made his whole hand look so pale it was almost sickly.

"Wipe it off," Ethan Young held back his temper and said, then added, "I'll give you three seconds."

After Ethan Young finished speaking, Henry Howard snapped back to reality and used the wad of napkins he'd just wiped his hands with to messily rub off the black from the nails. In the process, he accidentally smeared some on the sides, getting a bit into the crevices.

The day of the school anniversary performance was getting closer and closer.

Besides the intense rehearsals, the most important thing was figuring out the style of the performance outfits. They tried out many sets, and Emily Shaw even invited Old Thompson over to give advice, but Old Thompson's taste was clearly from another era: "What do you all think of Zhongshan suits? The spirit of the Chinese Republic and Constitution."

Everyone said in unison, "No, no, no, not good."

"Not suitable, really not suitable."

Ethan Young only had one requirement for what to wear: something normal.

Everything else didn't matter; even just the school uniform would do.

In the end, after much deliberation, Emily Shaw decided they would just wear white shirts on stage—versatile style, basically foolproof.

Because they placed the order late, by the time the delivery arrived at school, there were only two days left before the anniversary.

"They just arrived, no one's left yet," not long after the dismissal bell, Logan Wright came back from the guard room carrying a box, "Hurry, hurry, grab yours according to the size, try it on at home, if it doesn't fit we can talk tomorrow."

Ethan Young went back to the dorm, tossed the clothes on the bed, took a shower, and then stared at the outfit for a while before taking it out of the transparent packaging.

It was pretty simple, looked a bit big.

When Henry Howard knocked on the door, Ethan Young had just taken off his sweater and hadn't had time to put on the shirt.

During evening self-study, Henry Howard had said he did an interesting test paper last night and would bring it over for him to see later. Ethan Young knew he was coming, so he didn't lock the door.

The door was ajar.

Henry Howard knocked twice with his knuckles, didn't think much of it, and pushed the door open—only to be greeted by the sight of a boy's bare back.

Ethan Young had just showered, his hair still wet and dripping.

Henry Howard's gaze couldn't help but drift to the low-rise jeans Ethan Young was wearing, the small dip at the small of his back, and further up, the protruding shoulder blades, smooth lines.

He only looked for a second, didn't even blink, before Ethan Young had already put on the shirt.

"Where's the test paper," Ethan Young said as he buttoned up, head down, fingers twisting the white jade-like buttons. He was only halfway done, the collar wide open, making his collarbones look even more delicate. "How far did you get?"

The white shirt looked cold and plain, but Henry Howard felt the air around them getting hotter and hotter.

Who could care about a test paper now.

"Not doing it," Henry Howard said, "Let's do something else."

A single bed was barely enough for two people; any movement made a creaking sound. The silence around them made the sound seem even more ambiguous.

Ethan Young had just finished buttoning up his shirt, only for Henry Howard to start unbuttoning them one by one from the bottom up.

Henry Howard was impatient, undoing the buttons with one hand, getting frustrated. If Ethan Young hadn't reminded him that he still needed to wear it on stage in a couple of days, those buttons would probably have been ripped off.

"Don't pull," Ethan Young's hair was half-dry, the shirt collar damp, even his eyes seemed misty, "If you pull again, you're getting kicked off."

Henry Howard eased up a bit.

His fingertips were burning hot, wandering upward, while his other hand unzipped Ethan Young's jeans. The low-rise jeans hung on his hips, and then he reached right in.

Ethan Young had sounded tough just now, but now he couldn't get a word out. His five fingers unconsciously tangled in Henry Howard's hair, knuckles bent, stifling a sound, "Mm."

A tiny, barely audible sound escaped.

The ending dragged out a little, making one's heart itch as if scratched.

Neither of them could control themselves. As Henry Howard's hand slowly moved back, reaching down from Ethan Young's lower back, following the tailbone, touching a certain dip—Ethan Young felt where his hand was going, his whole body tensed up, his mind went blank.

"Ge." Ethan Young pressed his lips to his, calling him softly.

Henry Howard was sobered a bit by that "Ge".

The kid wasn't of age yet.

Not of age.

Fuck.

Both of them were already almost undressed. Henry Howard pulled his hand out, braced himself on the side, and paused for a while.

After showering, Ethan Young still didn't feel calm, so he washed the shirt as well.

Henry Howard wasn't much better. By the time he finished showering, someone downstairs was already whistling. He was drying his hair by the bed, wanting to check the time, when he saw a text from the kid sent ten minutes ago.

In just over two months, birthday, 18.

Ethan Young was brief; at first glance, the three short lines didn't seem connected. Henry Howard read it twice, and when he understood, he felt like the shower he'd just taken was for nothing—his body started heating up again.

He even wondered if this person was doing it on purpose.

On purpose to tease him.

The next morning.

Ethan Young and Henry Howard entered the classroom one after the other. When Emily Shaw saw them, she stopped reciting English words and hurried over to ask if the shirts fit: "How are the shirts? I asked in the group yesterday, but neither of you replied."

Emily Shaw had asked several times in the group last night. Luke Carter said his fit just right, Logan Wright thought his was a bit tight, so everyone discussed whether wearing it more would stretch it out, and in the end told him to eat less for the next couple of days.

In the end, they realized the two core members of the team hadn't shown up at all.

Tagging them several times didn't help.

"The shirt," Henry Howard coughed and said, "fits pretty well."

The homework from yesterday still wasn't done. Ethan Young opened his notebook, planning to copy a couple of questions.

It's great that the shirts fit, since the school anniversary was coming up and there was no time to change them if they didn't. Emily Shaw was half relieved and asked, "What about you, Yu ge?"

Before Ethan Young could answer, Henry Howard said, "His fits too."

Emily Shaw: ""

Emily Shaw felt something was off about that, thought about it for a while, and then cautiously asked, "How do you know?"

Ethan Young was copying multiple-choice questions, and his pen paused halfway through.

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79. Chapter Seventy-Nine

On the day of No. 2 High School's anniversary, the school was covered in banners, the bulletin boards plastered with posters, all in bright red, looking very festive. They read: Warmly celebrate the 67th anniversary of Liyang No. 2 High School.

There were also carefully hung streamers at the school gate.

Students walked in with their backpacks, chatting all the way.

The student council had started decorating the auditorium days in advance, and once the setup was mostly done, they focused on preparing for the afternoon rehearsal.

All the teachers in the school wore formal attire that day.

Old Thompson was never considered young, and his taste was even older than his age, with a particular fondness for old cloth shoes. Now, dressed in formal wear, his sense of style finally reached the passing line, and he looked much more energetic.

But Old Thompson still seemed a bit uncomfortable, standing on the podium, occasionally tugging at his tie.

"Emily Shaw said in the group that we'll go to the auditorium for rehearsal after lunch," Henry Howard poked Ethan Young with his pen and asked, "Do you still remember the moves?"

Ethan Young was lying down, head resting on his arm, looking at him sideways: "I remember."

Henry Howard reached out and naturally ruffled his hair. The kid's hair was soft, and once you touched it, you didn't want to let go: "Why do I not quite believe you?"

Ethan Young wasn't very enthusiastic about rehearsals, most of the time just following along with a cold face. Emily Shaw wasn't even worried about Logan Wright, who danced like he was exorcising spirits, but was worried that Ethan Young wouldn't be able to keep up with the moves when the time came.