POTINS 4

That evening, Yang Jiaran had no classes and nothing else going on, so he stayed at the motel to chat with Wen Zhongyi for a while.

“Are you married?” Yang Jiaran finally asked the question he’d been curious about, glancing at the ring on Wen Zhongyi’s finger.

Wen Zhongyi sat leaning against a pillow. He looked silently at the ring and said, “Yes.”

Yang Jiaran blinked, intrigued. “So where’s your spouse? Why aren’t they getting in touch with you?”

Wen Zhongyi lowered his gaze and replied softly, “He forgot me.”

“What?” Yang Jiaran was stunned. “How does that happen? Was there an accident?”

“I don’t know.” Wen Zhongyi coughed into his hand.

His throat was inflamed, and it hurt to speak, so he talked slowly, sounding a little sorrowful. “He suddenly disappeared. I looked for him for a month. When we finally met again, he didn’t remember me.”

“Oh my god.”

Yang Jiaran had only ever heard of this kind of thing in novels, not in real life. He looked at Wen Zhongyi with sympathy and sighed. “So what now? Did he see a doctor? Amnesia from an accident should be treatable, right?”

Wen Zhongyi shook his head.

He didn’t know why Meng Chuan had forgotten him, or whether he’d seen a doctor.

Even now, he still couldn’t fully accept it.

“Man…” Yang Jiaran sighed again, genuinely troubled for his new friend. “Don’t be too upset. If he really can’t recover his memories, you can just meet again, start over. Maybe in the process of spending time together, he’ll start to remember.”

“Do you think so?” Wen Zhongyi asked.

Yang Jiaran nodded firmly. “I do.”

They talked late into the night before Yang Jiaran headed back. Wen Zhongyi asked him to message when he got to his dorm.

Fifteen minutes later, Yang Jiaran texted: I’m back, you should get some rest.

Wen Zhongyi replied: Okay, you too.

The next morning, the weather cleared. The air held the crisp freshness that comes after rain.

Wen Zhongyi woke early and took the bus to his job at the bookstore.

His fever had gone down, but he’d caught a cold. His head felt stuffed with cotton—dull and groggy.

After a full night’s sleep, his emotions had stabilized somewhat.

He held onto the bus rail, maintaining his balance amid the jostling crowd.

Outside the window, pedestrians hurried by. He saw delivery scooters and shared bikes waiting at red lights.

There were no delivery services or shared bikes in Sanka—his home country was far less developed than this one.

The wounds of war didn’t heal easily, and adjusting to such a fast-paced society wasn’t easy for him.

Still, Wen Zhongyi was adaptable.

Except when it came to Meng Chuan.

Yang Jiaran said they could get to know each other again, and Wen Zhongyi agreed with that idea. But he needed time.

He had to first process the pain of being forgotten before he could face Meng Chuan without breaking apart.

After getting off the bus, Wen Zhongyi bought soy milk and buns from a street stall. But after just a couple bites, he couldn’t help retching.

The stall owner was startled and handed him a bottle of water, asking, “Is it that bad?”

Wen Zhongyi shook his head. He leaned against a trash can for a long time before the nausea passed. “It’s not the food. I’m just not feeling well.”

Between the cold and his pregnancy symptoms, he couldn’t keep any food down all day.

Thankfully, a coworker gave him a few packs of biscuits to keep him going.

“You look awful. Go take a break—I’ll finish this up,” the coworker said.

Wen Zhongyi didn’t insist on staying. He expressed his thanks and went to rest in the break area for a while.

His main job at the bookstore was shelving and organizing books—not too demanding. One good thing about working there was the access to knowledge about this world.

The bookstore owner allowed them to read during quiet periods. Wen Zhongyi had already taken the chance to read quite a bit. He needed to learn as much as possible to gain a foothold here.

He dozed briefly at the desk and woke up quickly.

A few high schoolers had come into the rest area, spreading their homework all over the table next to him. They were chattering non-stop.

“Who finished the math homework? Let me copy.”

“I did—here. Did anyone finish English?”

“No need. The teacher’s not checking. Hurry up and copy, then pass it on to me.”

“Don’t make it all look the same, okay? Change it up a bit.”

They bent over their work, scribbling furiously. Wen Zhongyi watched them with quiet interest.

Suddenly, one boy’s phone rang. He looked at the screen, and his face changed dramatically. “Crap! I’m dead—someone’s coming to kill me!”

The moment he spoke, the bookstore door was flung open.

“Ji Fan!” Meng Chuan stormed in, a blast of late-autumn cold clinging to him.

He paused when he saw Wen Zhongyi, about to say something, but his gaze landed on the worksheets in front of Ji Fan. His brows shot up, and he immediately launched into a scolding: “Your brother told you to stay home and study, and here you are copying homework? Not answering your phone either? Don’t think just because he’s on a business trip no one can deal with you! Pack your stuff and get your ass back home!”

Ji Fan had grown up under the tyranny of Ji Shu and Meng Chuan, and seeing him now was like a mouse spotting a cat. He pulled a long face. “I wasn’t ignoring your calls—I was just about to pick up when you walked in.”

Meng Chuan shot him a glare. “Still not leaving?”

Ji Fan hunched his shoulders. “…I’m going, I’m going.”

With that, he slung on his backpack and scurried off. The other students, sensing the danger, made a quick exit as well.

The rest area was left with only Wen Zhongyi.

Meng Chuan adjusted his collar and gave what he thought was a refined, polite smile. “What a coincidence. We meet again.”

Unlike the disheveled figure from yesterday, Wen Zhongyi now wore the bookstore’s uniform, his gaze calm and steady. Though his face still looked a bit pale.

Meng Chuan glanced at his name tag and raised an eyebrow. “Wen Zhongyi? Nice name.”

Wen Zhongyi gave no response to the compliment.

Their eyes met, and Meng Chuan noted how striking they were—cool and distant when expressionless, yet likely captivating if stirred by emotion.

He recalled how red-rimmed those eyes had looked in the rain and asked in an offhand tone, “You free? Want to talk for a bit?”

Wen Zhongyi remained where he stood and answered flatly, “No. I’m working.”

If Meng Chuan noticed the rejection in his tone, he didn’t show it. He went right on, casually, “When do you get off work?”

Wen Zhongyi didn’t answer. His lips were pressed in a thin line, his expression unreadable, like the man who’d lost control in the rain yesterday was someone else entirely.

Meng Chuan found it oddly entertaining.

He didn’t seem bothered by the cold shoulder. Instead, he glanced at the sign with the store hours and raised a brow with a smile. “I’ll come find you at six.”

And with that, he left with a casual flourish.

This time, there was no scent of alcohol on him. Wen Zhongyi could clearly smell the bitter-coffee note of his pheromones.

He stood in silence, watching Meng Chuan’s retreating figure, and exhaled softly—almost in relief.

Honestly, compared to the pain of never finding Meng Chuan again, being able to see him, just like this, was something to be grateful for.

Unfortunately, Wen Zhongyi wasn’t someone who found contentment easily—so that bit of joy was heavily diluted.

At 5:50 p.m., Meng Chuan stepped into the bookstore again.

There were no other customers. The day’s work was done, and Wen Zhongyi was standing beside a shelf, reading.

Even though he’d left the battlefield, Wen Zhongyi’s reflexes were still sharp.

Before Meng Chuan could even round the bookshelf, he had already slid the book he was reading back into place and casually picked up another, pretending to read.

“There you are.” Meng Chuan strolled over and caught a glimpse of the gaudy cover in his hands. He glanced at the spine, amused. “What’s with this flashy book… Pregnant with the Amnesiac CEO’s Baby?”

Wen Zhongyi: “…”

His face froze. With a sharp snap, he shut the book and shoved it back on the shelf.

“Didn’t take you for someone who liked that kind of book.” Meng Chuan chuckled, clearly enjoying himself. From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw the tips of Wen Zhongyi’s ears turn red, and his grin widened. “No need to be embarrassed. If you like it, just buy it—I’m not judging.”

Wen Zhongyi didn’t look at the book again. His expression remained steady. “What do you want?”

“I wanted to invite you to dinner—if you’re free tonight,” Meng Chuan said with a smile, glancing briefly at the bookshelves around them. “You’ve got quite the selection here.”

He reached out and pushed a parenting book that wasn’t fully shelved back into place.

The aisle between shelves was narrow, and Meng Chuan stood quite close. Being tall and an alpha, his presence was naturally imposing.

Even though his pheromones had a subtle pull on Wen Zhongyi, the latter quietly took half a step back and said, “What are you planning to feed me?”

Since arriving in this world, Wen Zhongyi hadn’t had a decent meal.

Yang Jiaran often took him out to eat, but given their limited budget, it was always cheap street food.

Wen Zhongyi didn’t care much for greasy things, and for the baby’s sake, he never ate more than a few bites—Yang Jiaran usually finished the rest.

“What do you want to eat?” Meng Chuan asked, then offered, “How about I take you to a few of my regular spots? You pick.”

Wen Zhongyi said, “Okay.”

Half an hour later, the two walked into a high-end private dining club.

Meng Chuan took off his suit jacket and slowly rolled up his sleeves. He told Wen Zhongyi, “Order whatever you like.”

Wen Zhongyi glanced at the prices under the dishes—numbers higher than his monthly salary. After a moment of silence, he asked, “Are you sure?”

Meng Chuan smiled breezily. “Just order. If you can’t decide, just get everything. I renewed my membership here a few days ago—should be good for a few dozen full-course feasts.”

“….” Wen Zhongyi’s lips twitched.

No wonder this man had been so picky even during military operations. Even living in the most luxurious villa in Sanka hadn’t satisfied him. Turned out he used to live this extravagantly.

Wen Zhongyi didn’t hold back. He ordered everything he wanted and handed the menu back to the waiter.

They didn’t speak at all while waiting for the food.

Meng Chuan rested his chin on his hand and openly examined the man across from him.

Wen Zhongyi leaned back in his chair, arms resting on the armrests, quietly wiping his fingers with a moist towelette.

He sat very straight. Not in an exaggerated posture, but the kind that came from habit and discipline.

Meng Chuan had spent years in the military and could spot that kind of posture instantly—clearly the result of training.

Looking more closely, Wen Zhongyi was slim but not frail. His shirt outlined lean muscle.

Not as built as himself, though, Meng Chuan thought with mild pride.

Then another thought crept in: would a guy with military background really wear rose-scented perfume?

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his gaze growing more curious.

Across from him, Wen Zhongyi finished wiping his hands, folded the towelette neatly, and set it aside. His fingers were long and pale, with no adornments.

—The wedding ring on his ring finger was gone.