Henry Foster stopped the external scan, snapped back to reality, and tore off the medical tape in his hand. “Wooden, icy, mute. Your descriptions of me are getting more and more biological.”

He really talks strangely, such a bookworm.

“You’re even more lifeless than inanimate objects.” He felt he was being harsh, but Henry Foster actually thanked him, leaving him speechless.

Logan Brooks was like a stubborn tape recorder, insisting that just a band-aid would do, but Henry Foster was a disobedient bad robot who insisted on giving him the highest level of bandaging. His movements were gentle, and the edge of his palm would occasionally brush lightly against Logan Brooks’s cheekbone, soft to the touch.

The collar of this sweater was too high and tight, making it hard to breathe, and now that there was blood on it, he wanted to change even more. The warmth in the air intensified the scent of body wash on Henry Foster, and Logan Brooks tried to glance away, but accidentally caught sight of the birthmark at the corner of the other’s eye. It was such a small spot, looking even pinker without foundation, a color that seemed to come from beneath the skin.

That seemed to be the most vibrant part of Henry Foster.

“All done.”

Logan Brooks quickly looked away and touched the gauze at the corner of his eye.

“Making a mountain out of a molehill,” he muttered in a low voice.

Henry Foster didn’t catch it, pausing as he packed up the medical kit.

He looked up, those beautiful eyes opening a little wider, looking less cold and a bit confused.

Logan Brooks glanced away. “Didn’t say anything.” He tugged at his sweater collar. “I need to change clothes.”

This young master tone was something Henry Foster always ignored, so he just looked at him, the two of them awkwardly staring at each other.

“I didn’t bring any clothes,” Logan Brooks added.

Henry Foster still looked at him, unmoving.

“Forget it,” Logan Brooks realized communication was futile, so he pulled out his phone to call Brian Harris. “I’ll borrow one of Mr. Brian’s.”

Henry Foster finished packing the medical kit, and when he came back, Logan Brooks still hadn’t moved.

“No one’s answering,” he muttered under his breath. “Where did he go...”

Standing to the side, Henry Foster stared at the little bloodstain on his sweater, almost dry now, feeling a bit uncomfortable.

“I have a sweatshirt I’ve only worn once, it’s really big, you should be able to wear it.” He quickly added, “If you want to, that is.”

In the end, Logan Brooks compromised. It was a grayish-purple crewneck sweatshirt, with a long black rectangle printed on the chest, inside which were grayish-white letters—Melt for you.

Melt for you.

For a moment, Logan Brooks imagined what this sweatshirt would look like on Henry Foster. It definitely wouldn’t look bad, but the words were too out of place, not his style at all.

He came out after changing, and paired with black cargo pants, he had a fresh, youthful vibe.

“Fits just right.” Logan Brooks tugged at the sleeve. Actually, Henry Foster wasn’t short—at 1.8 meters, he was definitely tall for a boy group. It’s just that Logan Brooks kept growing, and when he joined, he was still in his growth spurt, already 184cm, then shot up again, now at 188cm, the tallest in the group.

Henry Foster said nothing, taking the sweater Logan Brooks had changed out of and putting it in the washing machine. He was thinking about how to return to his room alone without seeming too cold.

As he hesitated, a voice came from the doorway.

“Juexia!”

He walked into the living room and saw everyone was back. Brian Harris was carrying two big boxes of fried chicken, and as soon as he came in, he bumped shoulders with Logan Brooks. “Hey, bro.”

The true ABC, little Brooks, replied in perfect Chinese, “I just called you and you didn’t pick up.”

“Really? Let me see.”

Caleb Grant rushed over and hugged Henry Foster pitifully. “Erhuo won’t let me eat fried chicken.”

Brian Harris scrolled through his phone, mocking, “It wasn’t me, it was the fat on your belly that made the move first.”

Owen Clark and Samuel Reed came in behind, seemingly talking to someone else.

“Who else is here?” Henry Foster asked.

“Oh, we came with the production crew,” Caleb Grant said. “They’re setting up cameras today and starting to film. Mr. Ethan said since little Brooks is back, we’ll do a welcome-back group livestream!”

“Starting today?” Henry Foster was surprised, but Samuel Reed was already leading the crew in, and they started installing cameras after a quick look around.

Owen Clark was holding two big buckets of popcorn. “Mr. Carter said we’ll do a pilot livestream to promote the group show, it’s already been announced.”

Brian Harris put down the fried chicken. “Once again, it’s time for the pride of Dalian to shine.”

“Old iron, double tap 666, yo~” Logan Brooks suddenly chimed in.

“See,” Brian Harris patted Logan Brooks’s shoulder, “even our overseas returnee little Brooks knows this meme!” Then he noticed something. “Hey? Little Brooks, what happened to your face?”

Henry Foster glanced over; the corner of his eye did look a bit swollen. Logan Brooks replied casually, “Boxing practice.”

This guy was really strange. On one hand, he was so real he didn’t care about offending anyone; on the other, he could lie without batting an eye, not even blushing.

“Juexia, aren’t you going to freshen up?” Caleb Grant ran over and hugged Henry Foster again, his arm rubbing against the fuzzy fabric. He shook his head, pulled up the hood of his fluffy loungewear to cover most of his face. “Forget it, let’s not keep everyone waiting.”

Caleb Grant sighed, “Ah, the confidence of the visual is being able to go bare-faced anytime, not even afraid of livestreams.”