William Bennett deeply understood this saying for the first time. He finally gave up on that problem and collapsed onto the bed, restless and frustrated. Before falling asleep, he couldn't help but recall the moment the door closed—Edward Harris seemed to glance down at his fingers, but he wasn't sure if he saw the test paper.

William Bennett was jolted awake at 6:10 by his soul-calling alarm clock and struggled to get out of bed.

His room had its own bathroom, so he didn't have to compete with Edward Harris for space across the hall, making washing up and changing clothes quick and easy. When he finished getting ready and went downstairs with his backpack, he realized—to his surprise—that he was actually the last one up...

Usually, when he got up, the only people moving around the house were him and the housekeeper.

Today, with an extra person around, he was a bit thrown off, his face wearing a capital "confused" from morning grogginess. It wasn't until Owen Harris came out of the kitchen carrying a bowl that he snapped back to reality.

At that moment, Edward Harris was already standing in the entryway, squatting down to change his shoes. He looked like he’d gotten up before dawn, probably to avoid unnecessary encounters and not have to go to school with William Bennett.

Actually, William Bennett had been thinking the same thing—while brushing his teeth, he’d been pondering how to stagger his arrival time at school from Edward Harris. But now that the other had actually done it, he felt a subtle sense of annoyance. He’d been around for sixteen years, and though he didn’t have many close friends due to moving often, he’d always gotten along well with people.

Edward Harris was the first to dislike him this much.

While he was spacing out, Edward Harris’s phone, left on the shoe cabinet, vibrated several times in a row. He straightened up, grabbed the phone, and glanced at it.

In that instant, his expression changed subtly—somewhere between stiff and hesitant.

Then, his fingers flew across the screen a few times. While putting on another shoe, he said without looking up, “Arthur Grant just sent me money, I’ve transferred it to you.”

It took William Bennett a moment to realize that Edward Harris was talking to his mom.

Owen Harris paused while ladling porridge for William Bennett, looked up at the clock, and asked in surprise, “What’s the date today? He sent you money at six in the morning?”

Edward Harris’s movements faltered, and William Bennett saw his brows knit together, as if he really didn’t want to talk about this.

“No, I was just saying.” Owen Harris, sensing her son’s displeasure, immediately changed the subject: “Are you heading to school now? Not waiting for Xiao Wang?”

“Yeah, I’ve got something to do.” Edward Harris lied without batting an eye and left without looking back.

Still groggy from low blood sugar, William Bennett was a bit slow to react, his mind stuck on the mention of “Arthur Grant.” For some reason, the name sounded familiar, like he’d heard it somewhere before.

It wasn’t until he reflexively took the bowl and burned his tongue on the first sip of porridge that it suddenly hit him. Martin Bennett had mentioned long ago that Owen Harris’s ex-husband was named Arthur Grant.

So that’s... Edward Harris’s dad?

According to Martin Bennett, Owen Harris and her ex-husband had divorced very peacefully—no major conflicts, no ugly fights. Their son was young but mature beyond his years, and hadn’t even tried to stop them.

So, after thirteen years of living together, they went their separate ways. Arthur Grant went abroad to start a business with friends, while Owen Harris took her son and they had no further contact.

William Bennett didn’t know the details, but at least for now, it seemed Arthur Grant still remembered to send money to his son regularly, and Owen Harris didn’t seem to hold any grudges. That was, in a way, a small blessing in an unfortunate situation. But judging by Edward Harris’s reaction, he really didn’t like his dad—maybe even... resented him?

But in the end, this had nothing to do with William Bennett. He thought about it briefly, then put it out of his mind.

He hadn’t intended to accept Owen Harris’s kindness, but he couldn’t bring himself to be rude to someone being nice to him, so breakfast was an awkward, uncomfortable affair—like a condemned man’s last meal.

He finally managed to gulp down the porridge, mumbled a quick goodbye, and headed out the door.

Little Brooks had just returned from dropping off Martin Bennett and picked up William Bennett right on schedule. In the front seat, he asked curiously, “Brother William told me to take both you and Little Harris to school. Where is he?”

“He left early.” William Bennett rolled his eyes and urged, “Uncle, hurry up, I still have a problem I need to finish to save my life.”

The second-year morning class at the affiliated high school started at 7:00, but most students arrived about twenty minutes early to catch up on homework or check answers.

At his old school, William Bennett always arrived right as the bell rang. Today was the first time he was this proactive.

The classroom was as noisy as a marketplace, with no one staying quietly in their seats. Some were huddled with their neighbors, others were crossing desks to find help farther away, and some were even wandering around with their test papers, eating breakfast on the go.

William Bennett’s deskmate in front, Samuel Wright, was one of those breakfast wanderers, currently drifting to the farthest group. As for the seat behind William Bennett, forget it.

In short, he had no one to huddle with.

Just as he was anxiously clutching his test paper, the chair behind him—Edward Harris’s—suddenly creaked. A tall figure stood up, and as he passed by, tapped his finger on William Bennett’s desk with a “thud.”

What was that about?

William Bennett was stunned, but Edward Harris didn’t even pause, circling out the front door and heading straight to the office.

It wasn’t until the other’s figure disappeared down the hallway that William Bennett noticed a palm-sized sticky note on his desk, covered in formulas and calculations.