He heard the sound of chopping vegetables, but couldn’t quite make out William Sherman; the other seemed to blend into the darkness, even darker than the shadows themselves... The only thing visible was the small pendant hanging from his neck, inside of which burned a fire identical to the glowing orb on his own right shoulder.

Chapter 60: The Merit Brush …

William Sherman was working on a head of cabbage. Hearing the commotion, he turned his head to glance at Logan Sullivan and said, “It’s too messy in here, don’t come in.”

Logan Sullivan ignored him, following the sound and feeling his way along the wall as he carefully entered. He slowly reached out and hugged William Sherman from behind, resting his chin on his shoulder and closing his eyes.

First, he tried to “look” over the cutting board with his own “gaze,” but perhaps because the vegetables had already been pulled from the ground and frozen, Logan Sullivan didn’t “see” anything. He just sniffed, barely catching a faint scent of vegetable juice.

Then he lowered his head and saw that, at the moment he hugged William Sherman, a blood-red color suddenly flowed from the center of William Sherman’s chest, like boiling magma, quickly spreading throughout his body. In Logan Sullivan’s pitch-black vision, it outlined a tall, elegant figure.

It was as if... that shadow had suddenly come to life.

Logan Sullivan watched this scene in silence for a moment, then, keeping a straight face and half-joking, half-serious, complained to William Sherman: “What are you chopping? I don’t want to eat that. I want meat. I’m not a rabbit. I’m an injured man now—I have the right to demand better food.”

He heard William Sherman let out a tolerant, low chuckle, then lift the lid of a small pot. A wave of meaty aroma, not yet released, drifted out. William Sherman said, “I’ve prepared what you like. Eat a bit of everything, don’t be picky.”

As he spoke, the fiery color on his body gradually faded, shifting from a rapidly flowing crimson to a gentle, unusually warm pink—like the color of the sun at first light after dawn.

William Sherman let him hold on, not shaking him off. Logan Sullivan swayed left and right with his movements, listening to the steady sound of the knife chopping on the board. For a while, Logan Sullivan said nothing. His eyes were dark and deep; when lowered, they didn’t seem dull, just unfathomably profound.

After a long pause, Logan Sullivan suddenly leaned in and asked out of nowhere, “Hey, hey, do you think I’m handsome?”

William Sherman’s hands paused for a moment, then he shook his head helplessly. “Can’t you say something serious?”

“Oh, something serious.” Logan Sullivan cleared his throat and, imitating the formal tone of a news anchor, spoke solemnly into William Sherman’s ear, “Comrade William Sherman, do you think that, bathed in the spring breeze of a harmonious society, the ideological giant and work pioneer standing by your side—is he handsome?”

William Sherman: “……”

William Sherman was speechless for a moment, then smiled softly, lowering his eyes and earnestly shredding the vegetables. This simple task was done with complete focus, as if nothing else existed. He said quietly, “Whether you’re handsome or not doesn’t matter to me. I don’t care. Even if you were big and burly, with a scabby head and ulcerated feet, ugly as a gourd, it wouldn’t make any difference in my heart.”

Logan Sullivan lowered his voice and said, “So touching. Next thing you know, you’ll be proposing to me.”

Even though it was just the two of them at home, they were still in the kitchen, not exactly a place for intimate moments. William Sherman was a little embarrassed; he bumped Logan Sullivan with his shoulder. “Move, I need to cook. Go sit outside, don’t make trouble.”

Logan Sullivan obediently let go and stepped back, his hands bumping into the cold metal edge of the sink.

Suddenly, he said, half-intentionally, half-casually, “So, would you ever lie to me?”

William Sherman, with his back to him, froze.

Logan Sullivan pressed, “Would you?”

William Sherman took a deep breath, still not turning around. After a moment, he said quietly, “I wouldn’t lie to you, and I would never hurt you.”

Logan Sullivan used his “heavenly eye” to follow his back, watching as the light on the other’s body gradually dimmed with just a few words, like a firework burning out. He suddenly felt a wave of inexplicable sadness.

So he nodded. “Mm, okay, then I believe you.”

William Sherman suddenly turned his head. “You believe me just because I said so?”

Logan Sullivan broke into a sudden smile. “If you say it, I’ll believe it.”

After saying this, he couldn’t bear to “look” at the flickering light on William Sherman’s body anymore. Logan Sullivan turned away, pretending that their conversation was just meaningless small talk, something to be forgotten in a moment. He groped along the kitchen storage shelves, muttering, “Where’s my beef jerky? I remember there was a pack of beef…”

Then, in his fluster, he knocked over a plastic broom in the corner, stepped on it, and nearly fell flat on his face.

William Sherman’s hands were covered in vegetable juice. Afraid of getting it on him, he stretched out his arms to block him in midair, and Logan Sullivan ended up falling right into his embrace.

Logan Sullivan’s apartment wasn’t big, and the kitchen was even smaller—barely enough for one person. With two grown men inside, it immediately felt cramped. William Sherman had no choice but to keep this position, wrapping his arms around him from the front and rinsing his hands under the faucet, his chin naturally resting on Logan Sullivan’s shoulder.

Logan Sullivan suddenly fell silent and still.

William Sherman finished washing his hands, and, still keeping his arms protectively around him, started to push him out. “Even if there is, it’s long expired. Stop looking. There are some snacks under the table—I just put them there. If you’re hungry, eat a little, but not too much. Dinner will be ready soon.”

Logan Sullivan lowered his eyes and smiled. “Starving, but I don’t want dinner.”

William Sherman was taken aback. “Hm? Then what do you want?”

Logan Sullivan turned his head, found William Sherman’s chin, then traced along his jaw to his ear, leaning in to whisper, “I want to eat you.”

As he said this, his gaze landed squarely on William Sherman’s face. Logan Sullivan’s eye sockets were deep, his pupils pitch-black. With his eyelids half-lowered, the shadow of his lashes fell across his high nose bridge—even though William Sherman knew he couldn’t see anything, he still felt as if “his gaze was full of affection.”

William Sherman felt as if his very soul trembled under that look.

Logan Sullivan leaned in with a smile, inhaling the faint scent of shampoo in William Sherman’s hair, and gently kissed his cheek. “What are you nervous about? You could try it, you know—I’m very gentle.”

Without another word, William Sherman tossed him onto the sofa and ran off.

Logan Sullivan stretched out his legs, lounging on the sofa like a lord, thinking he ought to order two red candles and light them at the bedside in the dead of night. Maybe only the atmosphere of a wedding night could get a certain old-fashioned gentleman out of his clothes.

When night truly fell and all was quiet, Logan Sullivan felt a restless itch in his heart. But William Sherman, worried about his poor eyesight, leaned against the headboard and read to him from a book.

William Sherman’s voice was warm and gentle, with just the right touch of depth. Listening to it, Logan Sullivan found himself not at all uplifted by culture, but instead more and more overcome by animal urges.

Just as he was suffering and enjoying himself, William Sherman seemed to sense something. His reading stopped abruptly, and he turned to the window with an unreadable expression. At the same time, Logan Sullivan suddenly grabbed him, rolled them both to the side, pinned him down, and whispered in his ear, “Don’t look. Turn off the light.”

The lights in the room went out instantly.

Logan Sullivan reached out and slipped his hand under William Sherman’s shirt, skillfully tracing from his waist up to his chest, giving a gentle twist at his chest. A wave of indescribable tingling shot straight to William Sherman’s head. He could barely process what Logan Sullivan had just said, hurriedly grabbing his wrist in a panic.

Logan Sullivan lowered his head and gently bit his collarbone, speaking in a slick, teasing tone: “How come you’re hard after just a touch? Missed me that much?”

William Sherman was mortified, almost forgetting there was someone outside the window.

Just then, the sound of the wind outside was mixed with a faint clacking noise. Logan Sullivan quickly traced the words “don’t move” with his fingers on William Sherman’s body, then yanked the blanket over him, even covering his face.

Logan Sullivan sat on the edge of the bed, his shirt unbuttoned down to his abdomen, hanging loosely on his body, but his voice was cold as he said, “If I were alone, you’d be welcome to come by anytime, but I’m not alone right now. Isn’t it a bit rude to barge in like this?”

A soft cough came from outside the window: “The Judge heard that the Lord’s eyes were injured and sent me to check on you. If I’ve disturbed you, I truly…”