After stalling for a while like this, Logan Brooks thought Henry Foster was just saying it for show, but he didn’t expect him to be so stubborn—it was almost scary. He repeated the same sentence over and over, like a robot.
“I want to take a look.”
But after all, he’d tried to play the hero and ended up getting hurt instead, so his pride was a little bruised, making his compromise even more awkward. “Then go get me a Band-Aid.” After saying that, he emphasized again, “A Band-Aid is fine, just a Band-Aid.”
But Henry Foster, who dashed out, seemed to have his ears blocked. When he came back, he was carrying an entire first aid kit, which he plopped down on the bed with a bang.
Logan Brooks looked at the box in front of him, then looked at him again.
This isn’t a little swan, it’s a silly goose.
Author’s note: Group livestream starts next chapter!
Friends, I’ve already written a warning about the gong’s personality. Little Brooks appears as a delinquent kid—he’s only in his teens, not a mature, steady, perfect man. If you don’t like it, there’s no need to wait for a change of heart; you can stop now. Don’t curse the characters, don’t curse the characters.
They had no contact for two years because of a misunderstanding. Henry Foster’s way was to act as if Logan Brooks didn’t exist, while Logan Brooks would tease him. As for why he misunderstood? Because Henry Foster never mentioned the unspoken rules, so he could only learn about it from others. But after getting to know Henry Foster, he realized he couldn’t have done such a thing, and he sincerely apologized.
When Henry Foster was really threatened, Logan Brooks was the first to step in and help him out because they were teammates. When Logan Brooks got hurt, Henry Foster was also the first to bandage him up.
If it weren’t for this kind of beginning, why would the two of them be forced to work together and get to know each other? If they were meant to be together, they would have been together long ago.
Personally, I can’t really accept people cursing the characters. I ask everyone, if you don’t like it, just give up—don’t force yourself.
Chapter 7 Group Variety Show Livestream
“I told you it was just a scratch. Why are you making such a big deal out of it?”
Henry Foster acted as if he couldn’t hear, his expression remaining tense. In fact, when he ran out just now, he even imagined the scene of pushing Logan Brooks into the ER. There were only the two of them in the dorm—if something really happened to Logan Brooks, what would he do? He wouldn’t be able to explain it. Things you can’t explain are the most troublesome.
Even if Logan Brooks was fine, if he ended up with a scar, he wouldn’t be able to escape responsibility either. After all, in a way, their looks were part of their livelihood.
Henry Foster snapped open the first aid kit. Even though Logan Brooks kept covering half his face to stop him, he still went ahead, dipped a cotton swab in iodine, and reached out toward him.
“Are you playing some kind of patient-nurse roleplay?” Logan Brooks said with a bit of annoyance, not even bothering to cover his face anymore as he grabbed the hand holding the cotton swab.
His mind was muddled—he actually imagined Henry Foster doing this kind of roleplay with some unknown sugar daddy. But in his mind, he could only picture Henry Foster’s face.
Originally, Henry Foster just wanted to treat his wound quickly, so he leaned in quite a bit, making the distance between them almost too close.
Logan Brooks could smell the scent of his body wash—a soft milky fragrance mixed with a hint of herbal bitterness, spreading from his fair neck and brushing over Logan Brooks’s face like a veil.
“You’re bleeding,” Henry Foster stared at the corner of his eye. His tone carried a hint of surprise, and even his usually cold eyes widened a bit, as if they’d come alive, “It almost hit your temple.”
It was actually pretty serious. The spot where the hardcover book hit was dangerous—between the corner of the eye and the temple. A slight misstep could have meant a serious injury. Blood was already trickling out, with a couple of drops staining his sweater and seeping into the fibers.
Logan Brooks was gripping his wrist tightly. Henry Foster twisted his wrist, trying to break free, the protruding wrist bone rubbing against Logan Brooks’s palm.
Looking up, he caught a glimpse of Henry Foster’s lips pressed together, the bead of his lower lip tucked in, giving off a stubborn yet fragile impression.
Logan Brooks let go and quickly snapped back to his senses. The person in front of him wasn’t fragile at all—he just had a face that gave people the wrong idea.
Henry Foster took it as the troublemaker giving up resistance, so he wiped the blood from his face and handed him an alcohol pad. “Wipe the blood off your hand yourself.”
He’d been dancing for years, so getting hurt was nothing new. He was used to handling it himself, and even as a trainee, he’d helped friends with minor injuries. It was nothing special. But Henry Foster was surprised to find that, up close, Logan Brooks seemed different from usual.
He was the most strikingly handsome in the group, with sharp, almost mixed-race features, and his fair skin made him look even more so. There was always talk of him being the “unofficial visual” of the group.
Logan Brooks’s eyes were long and narrow, with deep, narrow double eyelids, and his brow bone was so pronounced it made his eye sockets look deep. There were two faint moles—one in the center of his right eye’s lower lid and one just below it. He’d never noticed them before; you could only see them up close.
It was these eyes that made Logan Brooks seem both fierce and childish. His smile didn’t start at his lips, but in his eyes. If his eyes didn’t smile and only his lips curled up, he looked wicked. But if his eyes smiled, he looked like a kid.
“Hey, are you mute or something?”