POTINS 25

Meng Chuan never imagined he’d experience something akin to a classroom pop quiz again.

He felt like a student caught spacing out by the teacher, racking his brain and stumbling through his answer:

“Um… no carrots, no scallions, ginger, or garlic, no leeks, spinach, or celery, no eggs unless they’re scrambled or steamed, no noodles that have been rinsed in cold water, no seafood with a strong fishy smell…”

By the end, he completely blanked out, swallowed hard, and looked up at the ceiling in nervous silence.

Wen Zhongyi said unhappily, “You clearly didn’t take my words to heart.”

“You said so many things, how could I remember all that?” Meng Chuan felt wronged. “I’ve had a bad memory since I was a kid—more than three sentences and I’ll forget. I already did way better than usual just now.”

“But you could remember all of it before you lost your memory,” Wen Zhongyi replied calmly.

“…”

Meng Chuan stared at him in silence, then turned his head a little awkwardly. “Say it again, then. I’ll remember for real this time.”

“I don’t feel like saying it anymore,” Wen Zhongyi said, keeping his head down as he continued eating.

Meng Chuan thought, Fine, don’t say it. I’ll figure out how to remember.

After breakfast, Wen Zhongyi watered the plants on the balcony. He didn’t have many, but they were well cared for and still thriving even in winter.

Meng Chuan, having finished washing the dishes and left with nothing to do, wandered over and asked, “Why don’t you grow roses?”

“Hard to raise,” Wen Zhongyi replied.

He preferred cultivating Chinese roses over traditional roses.

Hearing that, Meng Chuan glanced at him and nodded in agreement. “Yeah, they are hard to keep alive.”

Wen Zhongyi didn’t respond, fully focused on watering the plants.

The morning sun was especially gentle today, warm as it fell on them, as if winter had suddenly turned to spring.

Meng Chuan had his hands in the pockets of his loungewear, lazily leaning against the balcony window, his gaze falling on Wen Zhongyi.

It had been a long time since he’d enjoyed such a quiet, comfortable morning.

Normally, at this hour, he’d either be in the office or on the way to work. Today was a rare day off.

He hadn’t slept well the night before, kept waking up after just a few hours.

His mind was filled with everything Wen Zhongyi had told him. Most of it didn’t really resonate, except for the parts involving Wen Zhongyi himself, which stirred a faint sense of familiarity and emotion.

But it was no use—he still couldn’t remember anything.

And he had a gut feeling that Wen Zhongyi hadn’t told him everything. Based on what had been shared, they sounded more like comrades-in-arms who would take a bullet for each other, not lovers deeply in love.

Suddenly, a fine mist of water broke Meng Chuan’s train of thought.

He instinctively turned his head and wiped his face, his palm came away damp.

He froze for a few seconds, surprised that someone as grown-up as Wen Zhongyi could still pull off such a childish stunt.

“How old are you, Wen Zhongyi?”

“Twenty-seven,” Wen Zhongyi answered solemnly.

Meng Chuan: “…”

He thought, Wait, he’s actually two years younger than me?

Wen Zhongyi held the spray bottle with an innocent expression. “It wasn’t on purpose.”

“You kidding me?” Meng Chuan pointed at the distance between the flowerpot and himself. “From that far away? Even if you were trying to make it rain for the plants, you shouldn’t have hit me.”

“It really wasn’t on purpose.” Wen Zhongyi refused to admit guilt, calmly set the spray bottle down, and walked off like nothing had happened. Totally composed, except for the suspicious twitch of his shoulders.

“Wen Zhongyi!” Meng Chuan called after him, pretending to be mad. “Don’t think I didn’t see you laughing just now!”

“I didn’t laugh,” Wen Zhongyi said without turning around. But the upward lilt in his voice gave him away.

It was only nine thirty after the watering. Wen Zhongyi spent the rest of the morning in the bedroom reading.

A bullet hole still gleamed clearly on the desk and chair—the bullet had pierced the back of the chair and drawer, embedding itself in the wall behind the desk.

The pistol had a silencer attached, and there had been fifteen bullets in the magazine, one had already been used. Wen Zhongyi knew gun possession was illegal in this world, but he didn’t want to turn it in.

Knock knock knock—

The bedroom door was tapped a few times. Meng Chuan pushed it open slightly and peeked in at Wen Zhongyi. “Can I come in?”

“What for?” Wen Zhongyi looked up at him.

“You haven’t finished telling me,” Meng Chuan said from outside, craning his neck to see in. “Yesterday you stopped at the end of the war, but didn’t say how we got married.” But when he spotted the pistol on Wen Zhongyi’s desk, he shrank back instinctively.

“Not much to tell,” Wen Zhongyi said, flipping to the next page. “Two months after the war ended, we got engaged. Not long after, we got married.”

“Don’t be so vague. What about the details?” Meng Chuan asked. “How much betrothal money did we prepare? How many tables at the banquet? Was it a Chinese-style or Western-style wedding? Oh right—do people over there even have the same wedding customs as we do here…”

“Are you done or not?”

Unable to focus on his book, Wen Zhongyi slammed the ballpoint pen onto the desk, frowning in exasperation. “Close the door.”

“Sure.” Meng Chuan pretended not to understand and shamelessly squeezed through the crack of the door. Just as he was about to shut it behind him, he heard the unmistakable sound of a bullet being loaded behind him.

Meng Chuan: “…”

“I’ll give you three seconds,” Wen Zhongyi said coldly, like a ruthless assassin. “Three.”

He didn’t even get to “two” before Meng Chuan darted back out and slammed the door behind him with a bang.

The bedroom returned to silence. Wen Zhongyi set the gun down and resumed reading.

Outside, Meng Chuan let out a disgruntled humph. After wandering around the living room aimlessly for a bit, he went into the study.

He hadn’t brought his laptop, so he had to use the home computer to log into the company system.

There were actually quite a few matters waiting for him to handle at work—no one dared to rush him, though.

Once he settled down, Meng Chuan focused and worked for a while. When he checked the time again, it was already close to 11:30.

There hadn’t been a single sound from outside. Wen Zhongyi was probably still in the bedroom.

Thinking of him, Meng Chuan started to drift. His fingers idly tapped the mouse, and suddenly a browser window popped up on the screen.

—It was the one left open from the last session.

Meng Chuan swore it wasn’t intentional.

He hadn’t known Wen Zhongyi had shut down the computer without closing the page. With a screen that size, it was impossible to miss. And besides, it was his computer in the first place.

Having justified it to himself, Meng Chuan leaned in with a clear conscience and glanced at the content.

Wen Zhongyi had three tabs open, all searching about pregnancy issues.

—“What to do about leg cramps at night during pregnancy,” “Why is morning sickness easing,” “How to relieve breast tenderness during pregnancy.”

He had even paid to chat in detail with an online doctor.

The chat was from a week ago—before Meng Chuan knew about the pregnancy.

Except for the recent stomach pain, Wen Zhongyi had never shown the slightest sign of discomfort in front of him. He always looked composed and calm, making it hard to imagine he’d been enduring all the physical changes and psychological strain of pregnancy.

The doctor told him these were all normal symptoms and could be eased with massage or dietary adjustments. If he was still concerned, he should go to the hospital for a check-up.

Wen Zhongyi had simply replied with, “Thank you.”

Meng Chuan read the chat log slowly and carefully, brow unconsciously furrowing. The feeling in his heart was hard to put into words.

After staring at the screen in silence for a moment, he picked up his phone and called Ji Ying.

Arranging for an OB-GYN wasn’t difficult. Ji Ying quickly agreed and, a few minutes later, sent him a number and told him to contact the doctor directly.

Wen Zhongyi’s condition was special, so Meng Chuan explained things to the doctor ahead of time. After hanging up, he instinctively reached for his pocket, only to find it empty—he’d already decided to quit smoking.

Quitting was hard. That pent-up craving made him a little irritable.

He suddenly remembered the time he’d asked Wen Zhongyi if he had quit smoking before losing his memory, and Wen Zhongyi said yes—but wouldn’t tell him why.

The reason wasn’t hard to guess. Because the only person who could make him willingly quit smoking was Wen Zhongyi—past or present.

Just then, there was a knock on the study door.

Unlike Meng Chuan, Wen Zhongyi didn’t barge in. Through the door, he asked, “When are you making lunch? I’m hungry.”

Meng Chuan’s lips curled up slightly. He raised his voice to reply, “Right now.”

He walked over and opened the door. Wen Zhongyi was eating an apple, cheeks puffed out slightly. The sight made Meng Chuan want to reach out and poke him.

He finally understood why Wen Zhongyi liked sour foods.

Before this, Meng Chuan had no knowledge of pregnancy or experience taking care of someone pregnant, leaving Wen Zhongyi to endure everything alone.

He didn’t know whether this ache in his chest and guilt came from instinct, but from this moment on, he wanted to make it up to him.

After lunch, Wen Zhongyi paced around the living room to help digest.

As Meng Chuan cleared the table, he casually said, “A doctor will come by later. You can talk to her about anything going on with your body. She’ll keep it confidential.”

“A doctor?” Wen Zhongyi froze, then arched a brow as he realized what Meng Chuan meant. “You called a doctor for me?”

He said it as if it were shocking that Meng Chuan would do something so proactive.

“Who else would it be?” Meng Chuan lifted his chin.

Before they could say much more, the doctor knocked at the door.

She was a kind-looking woman who introduced herself as Dr. Zhang.

She had been briefed on Wen Zhongyi’s situation beforehand, so she didn’t seem surprised at all and spoke with consistent gentleness.

“I’ve had fewer cramps lately,” Wen Zhongyi told her. “I’ve been drinking milk and taking cod liver oil.”

Dr. Zhang, holding his report, smiled and said, “That’s good. But your calcium needs will only increase as things progress. You should take some calcium supplements.”

Wen Zhongyi nodded. “Okay.”

As he chatted with her, Meng Chuan sat nearby and listened quietly the whole time.

In addition to nutritional supplements, Dr. Zhang said massage could also help relieve discomfort. As she explained, she turned to Meng Chuan and taught him a few techniques.

Wen Zhongyi lay on the sofa, pajama pants rolled up to the knee, letting Meng Chuan massage his calves and feet.

Meng Chuan paid close attention, his palms warm and dry, gradually finding the perfect pressure.

“You’re doing great,” Dr. Zhang praised.

Meng Chuan smiled and looked up at Wen Zhongyi.

One arm rested over Wen Zhongyi’s forehead, the other against his lower abdomen. Afternoon sunlight spilled over his body. He had his eyes half-closed, brows relaxed—he looked truly at ease.

Besides learning how to massage his legs, Meng Chuan picked up a few other techniques, but Wen Zhongyi refused to let him try those.

Meng Chuan thought it was just because he was embarrassed in front of others. So after Dr. Zhang left, he sat back on the sofa and beckoned, “Come here. I’ll give you a massage.”

“No need,” Wen Zhongyi replied flatly.

Meng Chuan was a bit embarrassed too, but thinking of the things Wen Zhongyi had searched for online, he got serious again. “Why not? Don’t tough it out, come on.”

Wen Zhongyi sat cross-legged on the sofa, still shaking his head. “I’m not uncomfortable.”

Meng Chuan didn’t believe him. He got up and moved closer, insisting on showing off his new skills.

“I said no!”

“Oh, come on, just tell me if I did a good job earlier or not?”

“I’m not trying it. Don’t touch me!”

In the midst of their tug-of-war, they suddenly lost balance and fell together onto the wide sofa. Meng Chuan reacted quickly, bracing both hands on either side to keep from pressing down too hard. He hovered over Wen Zhongyi, looking down at him.

Wen Zhongyi lay on his back, pajama collar a little loose, revealing a sliver of skin. His face flushed slightly as he glared up at Meng Chuan. “Get off me right now!”