"Of course not."

He hadn't expected Ethan Clark to directly refute him, and there was a hint of surprise in his eyes.

Ethan Clark spoke with a child's certainty, his tone firm: "If I like something, I'm willing to eat it every day. If I eat something I don't like just for variety, what's the point? It's best if it's in front of me every day."

Ryan Cooper paused with his chopsticks. "Don't you get tired of it?"

Ethan Clark hesitated for a moment and didn't answer directly. Ryan Cooper didn't wait for a reply and quietly continued eating.

"If it's my favorite, I won't get tired of it." He emphasized the word "favorite," as if this was an answer he'd thought about deeply.

Ryan Cooper was momentarily distracted, and before he knew it, Ethan Clark stuffed a lotus root ball into his mouth, making him frown in confusion.

"I'm giving you my favorite lotus root ball." Ethan Clark looked up at him, just like when he first came to his house.

Back then, Ethan Clark clung to Ryan Cooper every day, didn't understand anything, and could barely speak Chinese, but he would express himself directly through his actions. Every night before bed, Ryan Cooper would find some strange little toys by his pillow, sometimes even hidden underneath, only discovering them when they poked him.

Every time, Ryan Cooper would take these little toys away, but the next day, they'd appear by his pillow again.

One day, after taking a shower, Ryan Cooper happened to catch the "culprit" in the act, seeing Ethan Clark tiptoeing and stretching his chubby arms to reach his bedside, placing a little train and an astronaut by his pillow.

Caught in the act, Ethan Clark couldn't explain himself, babbling nonstop in English mixed with simple Chinese words. It took Ryan Cooper a long time to figure out that he wanted to give him his favorite toys to keep him company while he slept.

But at the time, he flatly refused, "I don't want your toys. I'm not a kid."

Ethan Clark cried right then, but at night, he brought the toys again and softly said a bunch of strange English to Ryan Cooper, telling him that this was really great, that it was his favorite toy.

In the end, Ryan Cooper gave in and kept the little train, stuffing the astronaut back into his hand. "One is enough."

That night, Ryan Cooper lay in bed, expressionless, fiddling with the little train engine. Somehow, he triggered a mechanism, and the engine's lights came on, whistling nonstop. It kept him up all night, dreaming of a crying little kid clinging to him and refusing to let go. It was practically a nightmare.

All these years, nothing has changed.

After dinner, the two of them cleared the table, took down the two rolled-up tatami mattresses from the corner, and laid them out for a nap.

"Is senior year of high school tough? I heard you guys go through a pen refill every three days." Ethan Clark set his pillow and lay down, looking at Ryan Cooper.

Ryan Cooper took a copy of National Geographic from the shelf and flipped through it. "I just started senior year."

That was true. And he was so smart, it probably wasn't that hard for him. Ethan Clark stared at the ceiling. He didn't want to go to high school; there were already too many worksheets to finish now. If he went to high school, he might die.

Allergies and asthma hadn't killed him, but dying from too much homework would be too embarrassing.

Seeing Ethan Clark still blinking at the ceiling, Ryan Cooper put down the magazine and ordered, "Go to sleep."

Ethan Clark responded with an "oh" and closed his eyes.

Seeing him finally quiet down, Ryan Cooper tossed the summer blanket over, turned the air conditioner up two degrees, and then lay down himself.

Ethan Clark looked very well-behaved with his eyes closed. Those big eyes seemed to hold all his vitality, and once they were shut, he looked much weaker and paler, making Ryan Cooper involuntarily think of how he looked during his attack that morning.

Emotions have a save point; they can pull you back to a certain moment in an instant.

"Growing like the wind" is how many adults describe children, especially after not seeing them for a while—suddenly, they're surprised at how much the child has grown. But clearly, Ethan Clark grew up with him, every day together. Yet Ryan Cooper still felt that way.

Seeing Ethan Clark lying there so quietly, Ryan Cooper couldn't help but think of the first time he was hospitalized for an allergy attack—just as quiet, so small.

That was when six-year-old Ryan Cooper first understood what danger meant.

"Ryan Cooper gege." Ethan Clark suddenly opened his eyes, turned over abruptly, and was suddenly face-to-face with Ryan Cooper, very close.

He was about to scold him for not sleeping, but Ethan Clark innocently asked,

"Do you remember what my first allergic reaction was like?"

Chapter 6: Sudden Downpour

Of course he remembered.

Ethan Clark arrived in Ryan Cooper's life as unexpectedly as a rainstorm.

He remembered it clearly—he was the one who opened the door that night. The sudden rain of a summer night rushed in, soaking his hair. His father was holding a child wrapped tightly in a coat, and after coming in, he crouched down and hugged Ryan Cooper.

Ryan Cooper curiously reached out and lifted the coat a little. "Who is this?"

Under the opened coat, a pair of eyes appeared, like glass beads.

"This is your little brother."

Six-year-old Ryan Cooper suddenly had a little brother overnight—soft, pretty, looking like a little angel from a fairy tale picture book, with light brown curly hair, only able to speak English, his voice milky and sweet.