POTINS 19

There was only one day left before the assignment deadline, and Yang Jiaran still had four midterm papers to submit.

Calling them papers was a bit generous, they were more like short-answer questions written on answer sheets. Yang Jiaran had already prepared the digital drafts, but there was no way he could finish copying them all by himself, so he called Wen Zhongyi over to help.

Yang Jiaran sent the documents to Wen Zhongyi’s phone, then handed over pen and paper with great reverence, saying, “If you help me copy these two, you’ll be my lifesaver.”

Wen Zhongyi chuckled. “Is it that serious?”

Yang Jiaran nodded solemnly. “If I don’t finish these four today, I’m done for.”

He had also bought chestnut pastries and coffee for Wen Zhongyi.

Wen Zhongyi only took the pastries. “I don’t drink coffee.”

“Alright then,” Yang Jiaran replied.

The two sat in a corner of the café. There weren’t many people, and the air was thick with the scent of coffee.

Copying text was dull and tedious work. Before long, Yang Jiaran grew restless and started chatting with Wen Zhongyi.

“How’s your partner doing?” he asked, twirling his pen. “Has his memory recovered at all?”

Wen Zhongyi kept his head down, writing steadily. The black ink flowed into elegant handwriting on the paper. “No.”

Yang Jiaran let out a sympathetic “ah” and added, “Have you talked to him about what happened before? He didn’t react at all?”

Wen Zhongyi’s pen paused. He sighed lightly. “We’ve talked, but he doesn’t believe me. Thinks I’m making it up.”

“What? That’s so unfair,” Yang Jiaran said indignantly. “How could he not even believe you? Don’t his family or friends try to talk some sense into him?”

Wen Zhongyi didn’t answer, he just shook his head.

The truth was, everyone who knew what he and Meng Chuan had gone through over those four years existed in another world. Here, no one knew about their relationship. No one could confirm that what Wen Zhongyi said was true. He was the only one who remembered any of it.

There were many times Wen Zhongyi had almost confessed everything—told Meng Chuan that the ring he wore was their wedding ring, that he was carrying their child.

But every time, the words stopped short of being spoken.

He knew that even if he told Meng Chuan all of this, all it would mean was that Meng Chuan knew the facts. It wouldn’t make him feel anything for Wen Zhongyi.

And there was no guarantee Meng Chuan would believe him anyway.

That fool still thought he didn’t like men.

Halfway through the conversation, the mood turned somber. Yang Jiaran didn’t press further and switched to lighter topics.

Afternoons always made people drowsy. Yang Jiaran, thanks to the coffee, was fine—but Wen Zhongyi started to feel sleepy.

After finishing one paper, he lay down on the table and fell asleep.

Yang Jiaran kept quiet, moving gently.

Ding-dong—

Wen Zhongyi’s phone, resting beside him, lit up and buzzed.

Yang Jiaran glanced at the screen on instinct. A message popped up, followed by another a second later, two in total.

Wen Zhongyi didn’t stir.

Yang Jiaran wasn’t the type to snoop. He looked away and continued copying.

The messages were from Meng Chuan.

By the time Wen Zhongyi saw them, more than half an hour had passed.

Meng Chuan: [photo]

Meng Chuan: I paid. You better keep track of it.

Wen Zhongyi’s limbs were stiff from sleep. As he rubbed his legs, he opened the image—it was last month’s property management bill.

Leaning back in his chair, he lazily typed a reply: Got it.

Meng Chuan happened to be looking at his phone and responded: Aren’t you going to say thank you?

Wen Zhongyi, never one to bother with politeness with him, turned off the screen without replying.

On the other end, annoyed at getting ghosted, Meng Chuan fired off three angry-face emojis.

Wen Zhongyi still ignored him.

The new month had just begun, and Meng Chuan was already swamped.

He spent nearly a week out of town for a takeover project, and even attended a press conference.

Local finance news reported the event in real time with both articles and video. That’s how Wen Zhongyi saw him, on his phone.

At the press conference, Meng Chuan was uncharacteristically proper. His charming rogue face, paired with a well-fitted suit, made him a natural favorite of the cameras. He had far more screen time than anyone else.

Wen Zhongyi opened the news article’s photo gallery and looked through each picture one by one, saving a few.

He had a habit of saving photos he liked.

Now, 80% of the photos in Wen Zhongyi’s phone gallery were of Meng Chuan. Wen Zhongyi attributed this to Meng Chuan constantly appearing in the news, and those news articles popping up automatically, it wasn’t like he was deliberately searching for them.

In the past few days, as Meng Chuan buried himself in work, the two of them barely kept in touch.

The only time they spoke on the phone was when Wen Zhongyi called Meng Chuan first.

Before that call, Wen Zhongyi had looked up the requirements for registering for the college entrance exam online.

He didn’t have any form of ID, so he couldn’t sign up.

When the call connected, Wen Zhongyi got straight to the point: “I don’t have an ID. Could you help me get one?”

Meng Chuan had had a long, exhausting day and his head was pounding. When he saw Wen Zhongyi’s call, he thought it was something serious—only to hear such an outrageous request. He actually laughed in disbelief. “Wen Zhongyi, are you seriously joking with me this late at night?”

“I’m not joking,” Wen Zhongyi said seriously. “Please help me get one.”

Meng Chuan rubbed his temples and took a deep breath, suppressing the urge to throw his phone. He gritted his teeth and asked, “Then explain to me clearly—why can’t you get an ID yourself?”

“I…” Wen Zhongyi began.

Meng Chuan cut him off. “Don’t give me that ‘I’m not from this world’ nonsense. What is this, a sci-fi movie? Stop feeding me that crap. If you want my help, tell me the truth. Otherwise, forget it.”

Wen Zhongyi was silent for a moment. “That was the truth.”

Beep—

Meng Chuan hung up on him.

After all the times he’d swallowed his temper around Wen Zhongyi, this was the first time he’d actually shown him a bad attitude.

Even though he couldn’t see Meng Chuan’s expression over the phone, Wen Zhongyi knew he was angry.

He didn’t call again.

The next day, Wen Zhongyi ran into Ji Shu at the bookstore.

Ji Shu was there to catch Ji Fan, and the scene looked almost exactly like when Meng Chuan had come by.

The moment Ji Shu appeared, Ji Fan, who was in the middle of frantically copying homework—didn’t even have time to resist. His older brother picked him up like a chick, and Ji Fan meekly packed up his bag.

Standing not far off, Wen Zhongyi was spotted by Ji Shu on his way out. Ji Shu glanced at him, did a double-take, and then looked at his name badge. Recognition dawned.

With a meaningful raise of his brows, he said, “So it’s you.”

Ji Fan asked curiously, “You know this guy, brother?”

“None of your business.” Ji Shu knocked him on the head and called the driver to pick him up.

Ji Shu sat on an empty sofa, gestured with his arm and lifted his chin slightly. “I’m Ji Shu, a friend of Meng Chuan. We saw each other from afar outside the hotel that day.”

Wen Zhongyi didn’t move and replied coolly, “Don’t remember.”

Back then, he had eyes only for Meng Chuan, he hadn’t noticed anyone else.

“Alright then.” Ji Shu shrugged, unfazed. “But I remember you. Meng Chuan mentioned your name.”

“So what? What are you trying to say?” Wen Zhongyi asked calmly.

Ji Shu crossed one leg over the other and looked him up and down. This guy really did have good looks and a striking presence, no wonder Meng Chuan had been so thoroughly captivated.

And that dumb little brother of his still thought he was straight, totally unaware he was already halfway bent.

So Ji Shu casually tried to fish for information. “Nothing in particular. Just wanted to chat. According to Meng Chuan, you’re the only person who knows what happened to him these past four years. But the thing is, no one can dig up any info on you. So how do you prove you’re not a scammer?”

He watched Wen Zhongyi’s face intently, not letting any tiny reaction slip past.

But Wen Zhongyi didn’t show even a trace of nervousness. Instead, he smiled faintly and said, “What does he have that’s worth scamming?”

Ji Shu was momentarily stunned—he’d never heard anyone speak about Meng Chuan like that. He twitched his lips. “You’ve already scammed your way into his house. Isn’t your next move to scam your way into his bed?”

Wen Zhongyi thought for a moment about the body he’d already slept with countless times, then chuckled. “Why would I need to scam for that?”

Ji Shu stood there dumbstruck.

“I have work to do, Mr. Ji.” Wen Zhongyi had no interest in continuing the conversation. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll take my leave.”

After leaving the bookstore, Ji Shu gave Meng Chuan a call.

“Chuan’er,” he said.

Meng Chuan had just wrapped up a meeting and was resting with his eyes closed in the office. His voice was tinged with fatigue. “Spit it out.”

“I just ran into Wen Zhongyi.”

Meng Chuan’s gaze sharpened. “And?”

Ji Shu recounted their conversation in full, adding dramatic flair at the end: “You should’ve seen his expression when he said that—this cool, mocking look, like you’re not worth a dime.”

“…,” said the supposedly worthless Meng Chuan.

“But the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced he has slept with you. That kind of dismissiveness only comes from someone who’s already had you. You get what I mean?”

“I don’t,” Meng Chuan replied. “I’m straight.”

Ji Shu said seriously, “You can lie to your bro, but don’t lie to yourself.”

“Get lost.” Meng Chuan hung up.

In the past few days, aside from work-related calls, he’d only taken calls from Wen Zhongyi and Ji Shu, and both had managed to piss him off.

He set down his phone and exhaled a long breath.

The air he let out felt hot. He reached up and touched his forehead—whether it was from overwork or catching a chill from the cold weather, he’d been feeling unusually fatigued and restless since yesterday.

He didn’t used to get angry so easily.

And now that damned coffee smell was clinging to him again. It had been haunting him for days, and now it was so intense he was beginning to wonder if he was mutating into a coffee bean.

He called his secretary. “Buy me some fever medicine.”

“Are you sick, President Meng?” she asked, concerned. “Should I schedule a hospital visit?”

“No need. Just get the medicine.”

After hanging up, Meng Chuan tugged at his collar in frustration.

The spot at the back of his neck throbbed hot and tight, pulsing with a strange emptiness and craving that made him squirm in his seat.