"It's nothing." Henry Foster reached out, trying to pull him away, just like the last time he had grabbed his wrist.

His fingers were long, but much softer than Logan Brooks had imagined—warm, gently encircling his cold wrist.

"Go organize your things."

It was clearly a command, but to Logan Brooks, it sounded almost like a request.

He was actually quite curious what kind of reaction Henry Foster would have if he kept lingering here, kept going against him. But he could sense that Henry Foster's patience had reached its limit; even if it was just for fun, he had to take it slow.

Logan Brooks wasn't sure if this air of indifference and dullness about him was real, or just a false persona he put on. Maybe Henry Foster was the type rumored to trade his body for opportunities, his desires too obvious, so he had to wrap himself in an ascetic image to cover it up. If that was the case, then his acting was almost too perfect. Logan Brooks was genuinely curious, even wondering why he hadn't realized before how interesting it was to spar with him.

But Henry Foster's shell was cold and hard, almost fused to his flesh; to peel it off by force would be too cruel.

So Logan Brooks didn't keep pestering him, letting him pull him out of the room.

When they reached the cardboard boxes, Henry Foster naturally let go of Logan Brooks's wrist, rolled up the sleeves of his loungewear, revealing a small section of fair forearm. He helped move a big box and found it was indeed frighteningly heavy. Only when he saw Logan Brooks open the box did he realize it was filled entirely with books.

Logan Brooks didn't let him move any more, just said he could help arrange the books. Henry Foster picked up a few in his hands and asked how he should arrange them—alphabetically or by year. To his surprise, Logan Brooks replied carelessly, "Whatever."

Whatever. Henry Foster silently repeated the word in his mind. Then he placed the books on the shelf one by one, not by year or alphabet, but by color gradient.

Logan Brooks brought in the rest of his things and unpacked them on the side. He only had four big suitcases in total, and only one contained his daily necessities; the rest were all books.

"Didn't you bring any clothes?" Henry Foster, standing on a chair to arrange the top row, asked as he climbed down.

"I don't live far from here. I'll deal with it later." Logan Brooks sat cross-legged on the floor, arranging the bottom row.

They quietly shelved the books like this, each taking a row, until the empty bookshelf was completely filled. Henry Foster felt a strange sense of accomplishment, even though the books weren't his, and neither was the shelf.

"What about the rest?" he asked, like a child.

Logan Brooks picked up the last few large hardcover tomes, stepped on the stool, and placed them on the very top of the shelf, stacking them up. He clapped his hands. "Done." Having grown up in the US, even though he'd studied Chinese and had been back in the country for several years, he still occasionally slipped into his habitual English expressions.

Standing in front of the bookshelf, Henry Foster looked over. The result of their work had a strange sense of layering: one row of book spines went from light to dark, while another was a random mix of shades.

"Meditations on First Philosophy, Critique of Pure Reason, Ethics, The World as Will and Representation..." He looked at the books on the shelf and realized they were all outside his realm of knowledge.

So Logan Brooks studied philosophy.

He'd only known before that Logan Brooks had originally studied in the US, majoring in management like any young heir expected to inherit the family business. But later, he dropped out on his own, applied to another liberal arts college, and apparently chose a major his parents didn't approve of. Then, after being caught hanging out in the underground hip-hop scene, he was simply sent back to China by his elders.

But why did he enter the entertainment industry, and why such a small company? These were all just rumors, since Logan Brooks was always elusive and mysterious. Everyone only knew that he eventually got into P University as an overseas student, used school as an excuse to refuse group dorms, and since they didn't have many gigs, he seemed to spend most of his time at school.

Thinking about it now, their lives really had no overlap, except for work.

"That's about it."

He saw Logan Brooks getting ready to move the stool away and wanted to help, but as he lowered his head, he accidentally bumped into the bookshelf. He felt something wobble, and before he could react, he was pulled to the side by a force, almost losing his balance and falling.

A series of thuds hit the floor, turning into several thick books that landed open, face down.

Only then did the hand tightly gripping his arm let go. Henry Foster turned his head and saw Logan Brooks's other hand covering his right eye. Suddenly realizing what had happened, he blurted out, "Are you okay? Did you—did you hit your eye?"

Logan Brooks kept his hand over it, shaking his head repeatedly like a child, then sat down on the hard bed frame, burying his head.

"It was my fault, sorry." Henry Foster was suddenly overwhelmed with guilt, remembering that he was the one who'd bumped into the shelf. Logan Brooks must have rushed over to pull him away and got hit instead.

"Don't flatter yourself," Logan Brooks pushed his hand away. "I was the one trying to put the books up there."

Then he muttered under his breath, "Sorry, sorry, it's always sorry every day..."

Henry Foster didn't listen to a word he said. "Let me take a look."

"No need." Suddenly, he became stubborn.