POTINS 11

Meng Chuan fiddled with the gas stove for a long time, only to fail in the end.

Wen Zhongyi stood beside him, nibbling on a chestnut pastry, and said blandly, “I told you to call a repairman.”

Meng Chuan took a deep breath and, refusing to admit defeat, said, “The stove’s just poor quality. I’ll get you a new one tomorrow.”

“Suit yourself,” Wen Zhongyi replied indifferently.

Ten minutes later, a repairman arrived and quickly resolved the issue. The stove lit successfully.

The sliced potatoes on the side had already oxidized and changed color. Wen Zhongyi poured the ingredients into the pan, glanced at Meng Chuan standing nearby, and asked, “Are you eating?”

“I ate before I came.” Meng Chuan bit into an apple, his face contorting from the sourness. He looked like he wanted to throw it away but didn’t dare, and stared at Wen Zhongyi with a complicated expression. “Did you buy this thing to sour yourself to death?”

“I didn’t ask you to eat it.”

Oil splattered from the pan. Wen Zhongyi stepped aside to dodge it and nearly bumped into Meng Chuan. Steadying himself, he gave Meng Chuan a glance and said, “If you’re not cooking, don’t stand here and get in the way.”

“Listen to you—like I didn’t get the stove fixed for you.” Meng Chuan casually grabbed two slices of cucumber, popped them into his mouth, and nodded. “The cucumber’s pretty fresh.”

Wen Zhongyi slapped his hand away with a hint of irritation on his face. “Don’t touch that. I’m using it to cook!”

Meng Chuan cradled his hand and hissed, “So stingy.”

Kicked out of the kitchen, Meng Chuan sat on the sofa and found a TV drama to watch.

Half an episode in, Wen Zhongyi finished cooking and came out with two dishes. The aroma made Meng Chuan glance over more than once.

Wen Zhongyi poured himself a glass of hot water, sat at the dining table, and said to him, “There’s no food for you.”

“I never said I wanted any.” Meng Chuan replied.

He slouched lazily against the sofa, continuing to watch the show.

It was an over-the-top family drama. After a while, Meng Chuan lost interest and shifted his focus to Wen Zhongyi.

Wen Zhongyi was sitting sideways, eating with refined manners. Meng Chuan had noticed this before—the way he ate always made it seem like he was savoring some gourmet meal, no matter what the dish was.

Even though the two dishes he’d made didn’t look particularly appetizing.

Meng Chuan smirked.

As if sensing something, Wen Zhongyi was just about to turn his head when Meng Chuan quickly straightened up and stared at the TV without blinking.

“…”

Wen Zhongyi slowly finished half a bowl of rice. The food was plain and not something he particularly liked—it was purely for nutrition. That was why he ate slowly.

Yang Jiaran was sharing stories of the day with him via phone, and Wen Zhongyi replied to a few messages before hearing Meng Chuan’s phone ring.

“Hello, Mom.”

Meng Chuan didn’t shy away and sprawled on the sofa, casually answering the call.

“I already ate… yeah, it’s going okay… no, didn’t add her on WeChat…”

“We didn’t hit it off, what else could it be… Don’t give me that, I’m immune to it by now… I don’t need it. I’m already swamped, and you still want me to go on blind dates. Let me rest, Mom. Okay? I’m busy—hanging up.”

After ending the call, Meng Chuan let out a breath. When he turned his head, he saw Wen Zhongyi looking at him with clear displeasure.

“What’s wrong?” Meng Chuan looked genuinely confused. “Did I bother you with my call?”

Wen Zhongyi stared at him and asked, “You went on a blind date just now?”

“Yeah,” Meng Chuan said. “I was forced into it, but with someone as young, handsome, and rich as me, it’s no surprise I’m popular in the dating scene, right?”

Wen Zhongyi put down his chopsticks, his face tightening.

If it were the old Meng Chuan, seeing that look on Wen Zhongyi’s face would’ve made him drop everything to comfort him. Because Wen Zhongyi really looked unhappy.

But the current Meng Chuan had no memory of Wen Zhongyi. He just felt confused. “Why are you mad about me going on a date?”

Wen Zhongyi took a deep breath. He nearly asked him outright—how could he go on blind dates so shamelessly without even understanding the meaning of the ring on his finger? How could he sit there, unable to remember anything, while the person he loved was right in front of him?

But in the end, Wen Zhongyi said nothing. He no longer had any appetite. He stood up, gathered his dishes, and wordlessly went into the kitchen.

The sound of running water filled the silence in the room. Meng Chuan stared absently at the TV, but Wen Zhongyi’s expression just now left an unpleasant weight on his chest—like he had really done something wrong.

But all he’d done was go on a blind date—and an unsuccessful one at that.

He sat and thought about it for a while, couldn’t figure out what the big deal was, and gave up.

Before long, the sound of running water from the kitchen stopped, and Wen Zhongyi walked out carrying a plate of green apples.

Meng Chuan had changed the channel and was now watching a soccer match.

Wen Zhongyi sat on the sofa farthest from him and began peeling the apples with a fruit knife.

Meng Chuan glanced at him discreetly. The gleam of the knife’s tip caught in the light, and for some reason, his neck felt a chill.

After peeling the apple, Wen Zhongyi cut it into pieces and ate them with a bamboo skewer.

It was the first time Meng Chuan had seen someone eat so daintily. He was about to make a snarky comment, but when he caught Wen Zhongyi’s completely expressionless gaze, he quickly turned back to the TV and pretended nothing had happened.

How strange, Meng Chuan thought. Clearly, Wen Zhongyi was the one freeloading, yet he was the one feeling completely out of place.

Even so, he didn’t really want to leave.

The scent of roses on Wen Zhongyi was too alluring—Meng Chuan found it hard to resist. Being in the same room with him just felt inexplicably good.

Wen Zhongyi finished one apple, wiped his hands, then couldn’t help eating another. Only after that did he look down to reply to Yang Jiaran’s messages.

Yang Jiaran had just gotten off work. If he didn’t have class, he usually worked a part-time shift at a convenience store—just an hour or two, not too tiring. After work, he bounced back full of energy and texted saying he wanted to come hang out.

Wen Zhongyi sent him the address and said, Come on over. Be safe on the way.

Yang Jiaran was shocked: You live in a place this fancy? Seriously? Are you sure that guy really doesn’t want anything from you? Who gives away a place like that for free just out of the goodness of their heart?

Wen Zhongyi replied: I’m sure. Just come.

Forget the house—what Meng Chuan owed him was far more than just a stable place to live.

Wen Zhongyi ate another piece of apple, suppressing the wave of nausea from morning sickness. He rubbed his lower abdomen. Every time he thought of the little life inside him, his heart softened.

Even if the child’s father didn’t know of its existence yet, that didn’t stop Wen Zhongyi from looking forward to its birth.

“My friend’s coming over soon,” Wen Zhongyi said to Meng Chuan. “It’s getting late. You should go.”

“It’s only seven-thirty,” Meng Chuan replied, not wanting to leave. “Why’s your friend coming over?”

Wen Zhongyi didn’t answer. His mood hadn’t recovered, and his tone was still cold. “Why aren’t you off accompanying your blind date? What are you doing sitting here?”

“Accompany her for what? It didn’t go anywhere.” Meng Chuan raised an eyebrow. “Besides, I didn’t even want to go. I only did it to appease my mom. That was my first and last time.”

Wen Zhongyi’s expression didn’t change much, but the frown he’d been wearing softened slightly.

“Oh, right—wanna hear the most ridiculous part?” Meng Chuan’s lips curled as if he found it hilarious. “The girl I went on the date with was a lesbian. I don’t have any problem with that, but she actually asked if I was gay.”

He paused here, looking at Wen Zhongyi with bright eyes, clearly waiting for a reaction.

But Wen Zhongyi gave no reaction. In fact, he seemed completely unmoved.

Still in high spirits, Meng Chuan continued, “Of course I’m not. There’s no way I’d like men.”

Wen Zhongyi’s mouth twitched. It was as if he’d just heard the world’s funniest joke—he let out a cold, scornful laugh.

“What are you laughing at?” Meng Chuan looked annoyed. “I’m serious.”

If he could rewind time just thirty seconds, Wen Zhongyi would have taken out his phone and recorded that line, just so he could play it back for Meng Chuan once his memory returned.

Doesn’t like men. Yet he could kiss a man, sleep with a man, and even get a man pregnant.

Hearing him say that now—what difference was there between him and some jerk who pretends not to know you the second he pulls his pants up?

Wen Zhongyi swallowed the rising anger in his chest, picked up the fruit knife, and peeled another apple.

“I really’m not gay. I don’t like men,” Meng Chuan repeated.

Wen Zhongyi kept his head down, slicing the apple without looking at him, and nodded flatly. “Then remember what you said.”

Meng Chuan didn’t say anything else. He appeared focused on the TV, but the bitter coffee scent of his pheromones began to drift out.

He’d never been good at controlling his pheromone. Back when they were in Sanka, it often leaked out and made Wen Zhongyi feel unwell.

But after so many temporary markings, Wen Zhongyi had grown immune. After the permanent marking was completed, he no longer felt any discomfort—only a deep attachment to the bitter coffee scent.

Now, that scent quietly surrounded him, silently soothing his irritation. Wen Zhongyi set down the fruit knife and let out an almost imperceptible sigh before taking a quiet bite of apple.

Meng Chuan didn’t realize he was releasing pheromones again. He just felt a slight itch on his neck.

Wen Zhongyi finished half an apple, went to wash his hands, and checked the time as he came out. Yang Jiaran would be arriving soon. He turned to Meng Chuan again. “You should go.”

While he was in the kitchen, Meng Chuan had snuck a piece of apple. His face scrunched up from the sourness. “…I’m not going. I’m the one who owns this place, remember? And your taste is insane. Eating unripe apples like that—you might as well drink a bottle of apple cider vinegar. Might suit you better.”

Wen Zhongyi couldn’t be bothered to argue. “Are you going or not?”

“Nope,” Meng Chuan said.

In the end, the owner of the house was unceremoniously kicked out.

Wen Zhongyi pushed Meng Chuan toward the door. Meng Chuan could have resisted easily, but for some reason, he didn’t. He let himself be shoved all the way to the door.

“You really are something,” Meng Chuan grumbled. “Is this how you treat your savior? Who gave you this free apartment? Who brought you those chestnut pastries? Who called the repairman for your stove?”

Wen Zhongyi ignored him, twisted the doorknob, and coldly pushed him out. “Take care.”

The door slammed shut with a bang, nearly catching Meng Chuan’s nose.

“…”

He reached out to open it with his fingerprint but thought better of it. He glared at the closed door and muttered, “Ungrateful bastard. If I care about you again, I’m a damn dog.”