POTINS 8

Wen Zhongyi stayed crouched on the ground for a long time before slowly standing up.

“Feeling better?” Meng Chuan reached out to steady him. His hand touched Wen Zhongyi’s cold fingers—he was clearly freezing, trembling uncontrollably.

“Tissue,” Wen Zhongyi said hoarsely.

Meng Chuan pulled a tissue from his pocket and handed it over. Wen Zhongyi looked incredibly pale, with reddened eyes and nose, like he’d just cried.

For some reason, a strange ache welled up in Meng Chuan’s chest. He didn’t say anything sarcastic this time.

He drove much slower for the rest of the ride. Cold wind poured in from the open window, draining all the color from Wen Zhongyi’s profile.

Meng Chuan glanced at him several times and figured that thin coat of his couldn’t possibly block out the cold. When they stopped at a red light, Meng Chuan reached into the backseat and pulled forward a thick overcoat he’d left in the car the day before.

“Put this on,” he said.

Wen Zhongyi turned and gave it a glance, said nothing, and quietly draped the coat over himself.

The nausea still lingered faintly. He rested his forehead against the window and shut his eyes.

The coat was saturated with Meng Chuan’s bitter coffee-scented pheromones. It soothed the craving that had gnawed at Wen Zhongyi for so long. He buried half his face in it, the familiar scent wrapping around him, stinging his nose.

“Meng Chuan.” He broke the silence with small talk. “Where’s your hometown?”

Wen Zhongyi didn’t respond. He kept his eyes closed, but Meng Chuan could tell he wasn’t asleep.

Getting no reply, Meng Chuan wasn’t bothered. “Close the window. We’re almost there—you’ll catch a cold like this.”

Wen Zhongyi extended a finger to tap the button, and the window rolled up, leaving only a narrow slit.

The car was warm inside, the heater quickly driving out the chill. Wen Zhongyi’s hands stopped trembling, and his complexion improved.

“Water,” he ordered again.

Meng Chuan handed over a bottle with a helpless laugh. “I’m really starting to wonder about our past. Was I always this obedient to you over those four years?”

Wen Zhongyi took a sip, found it too cold, and stopped. He looked up at him.

More than obedient. Back then, he didn’t even have to ask—Meng Chuan would hand him water on his own.

Wen Zhongyi had a sensitive stomach, and the water Meng Chuan gave him was always warm. He’d even kept a thermos just for that.

And the old Meng Chuan would never have driven recklessly with Wen Zhongyi in the car, nor let him suffer through morning sickness without a word.

That thought brought a chill to Wen Zhongyi’s eyes as he shot Meng Chuan a frosty glare, like he’d committed some unforgivable sin.

Meng Chuan looked baffled. “What?”

“Nothing,” Wen Zhongyi said coldly, turning his gaze away.

Meng Chuan kept driving, not noticing the speed creeping up again. Wen Zhongyi cracked the window slightly. “Slow down.”

“…Okay.” Meng Chuan eased off the gas, reducing the sleek sports car to a slow crawl. He chuckled to himself. “You get carsick way too easily. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were pregnant.”

The second the words left his mouth, Wen Zhongyi’s sharp glare cut over.

Meng Chuan quickly added, “Joking. Can’t even make a joke now?”

“No,” Wen Zhongyi said without turning, staring out the window. “Don’t talk.”

Meng Chuan curled his lips but stayed silent.

They soon reached the area near the motel. The narrow streets were a maze, crammed with roadside stalls and overflowing trash bins—filthy and chaotic.

It was Meng Chuan’s first time in such a rundown place. He wrinkled his nose. “You live here?”

Wen Zhongyi nodded coolly. “That building at the very back.”

The flashy sports car drew stares from all around the neighborhood.

Meng Chuan crept forward, worried he might knock over a fruit stand, and asked, “Why not stay at a hotel?”

“You think I don’t want to?” Wen Zhongyi gave a low, humorless laugh and threw him a line filled with scorn: “Typical out-of-touch capitalist.”

Meng Chuan had no comeback. He muttered, “Just asking.”

The car pulled to a stop. Wen Zhongyi opened the door and stepped out.

He was still wrapped in Meng Chuan’s coat. Meng Chuan didn’t ask for it back, and Wen Zhongyi didn’t offer.

The scent of roses faded with Wen Zhongyi’s departure. Meng Chuan pressed his lips together, suddenly reluctant to let him leave like this.

There were still too many unanswered questions.

“Wen Zhongyi.” He lowered the window and leaned out. “Got time tonight? I’ll take you back to that restaurant.”

Wen Zhongyi turned, not immediately replying.

Meng Chuan added, “Want more chestnut pastries?”

For a moment, Wen Zhongyi looked tempted, but in the end, he shook his head. “No.”

That bout of vomiting had left him queasy. Just thinking about food made him sick. He didn’t want to ruin his love for chestnut pastries.

“Alright then.” Meng Chuan didn’t push it. He waved at him. “The coat’s yours. See you.”

With that, he turned the car around and drove out of the alley. The roar of the engine echoed down the road as the silver sports car merged into traffic.

At three in the afternoon, Yang Jiaran came back from the play and sought out Wen Zhongyi.

Wen Zhongyi returned the campus card to him and asked how the play was.

“It was amazing! Totally worth the hype!” Yang Jiaran was still brimming with excitement and handed over a sugar hawthorn skewer. “For you. Thanks for going to the lecture in my place.”

He had bought a whole variety of them, far more than Wen Zhongyi could eat alone, so the two of them sat together chewing on the sweet, sour treats.

The hawthorn was a bit tart. Yang Jiaran gave up after one stick, but Wen Zhongyi found it delicious.

“Hey, what happened to your ring?” Yang Jiaran finally noticed the bare finger where the ring used to be.

Wen Zhongyi licked the sugar from the corner of his mouth and lowered his eyes. “Didn’t feel like wearing it.”

“Oh.” Yang Jiaran asked, “How’s your partner doing? Any memory coming back?”

Wen Zhongyi shook his head. “No.”

He had reached 68.5% acceptance of the fact that Meng Chuan had forgotten him. The pain had dulled significantly, so facing him wasn’t quite as unbearable.

But Wen Zhongyi figured he’d never get past 80%. There was no way he could fully let it go.

Yang Jiaran invited him out for dinner—his treat—but Wen Zhongyi politely declined. He really didn’t want to eat anything, hawthorn aside.

After Yang Jiaran left, Wen Zhongyi finished the rest of the hawthorn in one go and still found himself craving more.

That night, he leaned against the headboard reading, wrapped in Meng Chuan’s coat. The bitter coffee scent of the pheromones enveloped him, making him feel safe and comfortable.

The book said that craving sour foods during pregnancy was normal. It helped with digestion by stimulating gastric acid.

But hawthorn wasn’t ideal for pregnant people.

Wen Zhongyi decided to buy some green apples tomorrow instead.

He had just finished the page when a drop of water landed on it, smudging a few characters.

Startled, Wen Zhongyi looked up at the ceiling.

Above his bed was a network of pipes, and one of them had just started dripping.

First a few drops. Then the pace quickened—until it was a steady stream.

Wen Zhongyi: “…”

A large water stain had spread across the yellowed ceiling, and the pipe made ominous groaning noises, as if it were about to burst.

In the chaos, Wen Zhongyi barely managed to save Meng Chuan’s coat. His blanket and pillow were soaked almost instantly.

Outside, he heard footsteps and shouting. Other rooms were leaking too—the whole motel was in uproar.

Wen Zhongyi swiftly packed his things, grabbed his suitcase, and headed downstairs. Just as he stepped out of the motel, a loud bang sounded behind him, and water gushed down the stairs.

The owner was the last to bolt outside. “The pipe burst! The valve won’t shut off—I already called for repairs!”

But even if it were fixed, the motel wouldn’t be livable for some time.

Wen Zhongyi took the cash refund from the owner and stood by the roadside, dragging his suitcase as he stared at the endless stream of traffic, sighing deeply.

He had no ID, no home, and now not even a dump like this would take him.

Ask Yang Jiaran for help?

He was just a college student living in a dorm—he couldn’t take him in.

So what now?

Wen Zhongyi pulled the coat tighter around him and, shivering in the wind, took out his phone and called Meng Chuan.

The call connected quickly. Meng Chuan’s voice had a light, teasing tone: “What’s up?”

“The motel’s pipes burst. Can’t stay there anymore.” Wen Zhongyi said succinctly. “I don’t have anywhere to go.”

Meng Chuan raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“…So,” Wen Zhongyi paused, then said, “Could you help me find somewhere to stay?”

His words might’ve said “help,” but his tone held zero humility.

“Confident I’ll help, huh?” Meng Chuan let out a lazy laugh. “Say please.”

“…” Wen Zhongyi was silent for a beat, then spoke: “Meng Chuan.”

Lounging on the couch, Meng Chuan straightened up suddenly. “Yeah?”

“I’m at the intersection of Fubei Road and Landong Road, just outside the motel.” Wen Zhongyi’s voice was flat and emotionless. “You have twenty minutes. Come pick me up.”

Then he hung up.

On the other end, Meng Chuan stared at the screen and muttered, “Damn.”

“What’s wrong?” Ji Shu leaned over. “Who called?”

Meng Chuan looked blank. “My commanding officer.”

Ji Shu: “?”

Since there was nothing to hide from his childhood friend, Meng Chuan gave him a rough summary of what had happened with Wen Zhongyi. At the end, he shook his head. “I can’t remember a single thing from those four years, and he won’t tell me the truth. Acts like I owe him something.”

“Then why bother helping him?” Ji Shu was clearly unimpressed. “He’s probably a scammer, taking advantage of your amnesia. No way he’s up to anything good.”

“I’m not sure what he’s after either,” Meng Chuan said as he stood, pulling on a coat and checking his watch—he still had time. “But the moment I saw him, I felt like I really did owe him something. Like if I didn’t help, I’d be betraying some part of myself. It’s weird.”

He paused, grinning. “Anyway, I know you don’t get it. I’m out.”

“…”

Ji Shu stared at his friend’s retreating figure for a long moment, then muttered to himself that maybe Meng Chuan should get his brain checked—there was probably more going on than just amnesia.