He stood at the doorway in a daze for a moment, a surge of uncontrollable murderous intent suddenly welling up inside him, as if a dragon that had slumbered for years was being forcibly awakened by someone tugging at its reverse scale—ever since the last time he let his guard down and Logan Sullivan’s eyes were injured, William Sherman, though outwardly unchanged, had a dangerous string pulled taut in his heart.

The empty living room nearly snapped that string... Fortunately, at that moment, he heard voices coming from the balcony. William Sherman barely managed to collect himself, his figure flickering as he almost instantly appeared on the balcony.

He saw Logan Sullivan sprawled comfortably on the windowsill, lazily smoking a cigarette and cursing into the phone: “...No stones, I know... marble? What the hell! I’m not renovating the Forbidden City, Old Hu, this isn’t right, don’t try to pull that trick on me... No, no, listen to me, just do the job properly for me, I’ll count the kickback as an extra bonus for you, not a cent less, alright? But I’m telling you, if you try to fool me, you’re dead...”

William Sherman let out a heavy sigh of relief and leaned against the door, only then realizing that he’d broken out in a cold sweat, his palms icy.

Logan Sullivan heard the noise, turned his head and saw William Sherman return, immediately breaking into a smile and saying to the person on the phone, “Alright, alright, stop fussing over this trivial stuff, just use eco-friendly materials for me... What Copenhagen, I still have to live in that place, I just don’t want you making it smell like it’s been ravaged by biochemical weapons, with the stench lingering for a hundred years—hey, my wife’s back, I’m done talking nonsense with you, hanging up, hanging up.”

With that, he decisively hung up, stubbed out his cigarette, leaned against the wide-open balcony window with the cold wind pouring in, spread his arms, and opened his wrinkled shirt-clad embrace, saying cheekily, “Baby, come here, let your husband give you a hug.”

Teasing William Sherman had become a habit for him, but this time, unexpectedly, William Sherman actually walked over, hugged him tightly, buried his face in his shoulder for a moment, then gripped his waist with both hands, lifted him off the windowsill, closed the window behind him, and when William Sherman touched Logan Sullivan’s icy hands, he frowned: “Are you a fool sleeping on a cold bed, not knowing it’s cold?”

Foolish Logan Sullivan propped both hands on the windowsill, trapping William Sherman between his arms, stretched his shoulders lazily, and with that motion, rested his chin on William Sherman’s shoulder, closed his eyes, the corners of his mouth carrying a faint, peaceful smile, like a well-fed cat basking in the sun.

William Sherman felt he was acting a bit strange, so he asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” these three words seemed to roll around in his mouth for a while before he finally said them. Then Logan Sullivan opened his eyes, gazed at William Sherman’s profile just inches away, and said with a straight face, “To have such a beauty favor me, I’m overwhelmed—of course, if you’d let me steal another kiss, I’d be completely lost.”

Then, taking advantage of William Sherman’s inattention, he quickly pecked him on the lips, and before William Sherman could react, he darted away at lightning speed, announcing, “Let me wash my face and sober up, then I’ll go pick up Darrin Grant, and after that, I’ll take you home.”

He didn’t mention a single word about what he had seen.

According to the plan between Logan Sullivan and Darrin Grant, the two of them intended to go back empty-handed, just to eat, but this shameless freeloading was firmly stopped by William Sherman, who dragged the yawning Logan Sullivan off the car halfway to buy a lot of things.

The closer they got to his home, the more nervous William Sherman became. If he weren’t such a gentleman who couldn’t go back on his word, he’d probably have turned and run already.

The door to Logan Sullivan’s house wasn’t locked, and he didn’t seem to have the habit of knocking—he just pushed it open, and it opened right up, as if he knew someone inside had left it open for him.

He lived in a large, single-floor apartment, a bit too spacious, which made it feel a little empty. Only after passing through the entryway could you hear the faint clatter of pots and pans from the kitchen. At the door, there were two pairs of brand-new slippers.

Darrin Grant jumped down from Logan Sullivan’s arms, tiptoed to the kitchen door, and called out sweetly, “Meow—”

Logan Sullivan, changing his shoes, muttered, “Acting cute is shameful, you old rascal.”

Darrin Grant turned and glared at him, eyes fierce.

“Oh, isn’t this Darrin Grant?” a gentle woman’s voice came from the kitchen. She seemed to dust the flour off her hands, then gently picked up the heavy black cat. After nearly spraining her wrist under the cat’s weight, she couldn’t help but exclaim, “Look at this shiny, plump little thing, how are you getting fatter and fatter?”

This sentence mercilessly hit Darrin Grant’s sore spot. It had nothing to say, its two chubby paws drooping on the hostess’s hands, maintaining a cute expression, its long, stretched body looking like a fat, silly black caterpillar.

Logan Sullivan: “Hahahahahaha.”

William Sherman forced a polite smile to match the occasion, but he really couldn’t laugh.

Mrs. Sullivan was very well-preserved, her long hair coiled at the back of her head, revealing a slender neck. She didn’t look much like Logan Sullivan, but if you looked closely, there was a faint resemblance in her features. Her face was much softer and more delicate, always carrying a hint of a smile even when she wasn’t smiling, and she wore rimless glasses on her nose.

At first glance, she looked like one of those gentle, beautiful, well-educated ladies from old times, with an indescribable grace about her... Sometimes, it seems, fathers and sons do share similar tastes in partners.

Who would have thought that this “lady of the house” would glance toward the door at the sound, and the moment she saw Logan Sullivan, her expression changed instantly—her brows drew together, her eyes widened, and in a second she turned into a fierce mother: “What are you laughing at? Aren’t you afraid your mouth will split? Get in here!”

Logan Sullivan obediently rolled inside, and Mrs. Sullivan finally saw William Sherman, who had been blocked from view.

She paused, turned to wash the flour off her hands, adjusted her glasses, and then, with a gentle and hospitable demeanor, said, “Ah, this must be Xiao Shen?”

Logan Sullivan slung his arm around William Sherman’s shoulders and pushed him toward Mrs. Sullivan: “The daughter-in-law I found for you—good-looking, right?”

William Sherman was instantly tongue-tied, so embarrassed he didn’t know what to say. He had never hated Logan Sullivan’s lack of propriety so much.

Luckily, Mrs. Sullivan didn’t seem to take him seriously at all. She glared at Logan Sullivan, then looked down at the things in William Sherman’s hands: “Oh, you child, coming to Auntie’s house for dinner and still bringing things, why so polite?”

Logan Sullivan pointed at his own nose: “Me, me, me, I bought those.”

Mrs. Sullivan picked up a rolling pin and, with practiced ease, smacked Logan Sullivan: “If you had that kind of sense, I’d have died content long ago—go pour water for our guest, and after that, help me roll out the dumpling wrappers!”

Logan Sullivan, bearing the white flour marks from the rolling pin on his back, muttered resentfully, “...Yes, ma’am.”

William Sherman sat stiffly in a corner of the sofa. When offered fruit, he picked up a small piece of apple without much appetite; when offered water, he sat up straight and took a tiny sip. Upon learning that William Sherman taught Chinese at a university, Mrs. Sullivan immediately perked up, saying enthusiastically, “Oh, that’s wonderful! If only I had a son like you, how great would that be? Our father and son here... ah, I don’t even want to talk about them. Anyway, you sit, Auntie will go make dumplings, and when I’m back, we’ll have a good chat.”

William Sherman forced a smile, his back ramrod straight, like a fully drawn bow.

Five minutes later, Logan Sullivan, having failed at his task—his dumpling wrappers were all different sizes and shapes—was smacked again with the rolling pin. He loosened his shoulders, half-jokingly dodged, but didn’t really avoid it. As she hit him, he muttered, “Can’t you give me a little face in front of guests?”

Mrs. Sullivan said, “You eat but don’t work, never home all year, what’s the point of raising you? Face? Do you even have any?”

Logan Sullivan grinned and made room for her, but didn’t leave the kitchen. He propped one hand on the wall, watching her busy back, his eyes darting around. Suddenly, he asked, pretending to be casual, “Where’s Auntie? Where’s Dad? Why is our beautiful lady home alone?”

“Auntie went back to her hometown for the New Year, your dad has a business dinner tonight, he won’t be back.”

“That’s good,” Logan Sullivan said with a tone of relief. He watched his mother’s back, lowered his voice tentatively, “If Dad found out about this... he’d kill me.”

Mrs. Sullivan immediately turned to look at him: “What trouble have you gotten into?”

“Actually, it’s nothing...” Logan Sullivan’s gaze drifted to the chopstick holder, his eyesight not fully recovered, so he squinted unconsciously. Then, watching his mother’s expression, he asked, “It’s just... hey, Mom, what do you think about homosexuality?”