POTINS 16

For a moment, Meng Chuan thought Wen Zhongyi had seen right through what he’d just been thinking. His heart started to race, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly.

But though he was flustered inside, his face stayed calm. “Nothing, I just wanted to tell you there’s something on the corner of your mouth.”

Wen Zhongyi lifted a hand and wiped the corner of his mouth. His knuckles came back slightly damp. He raised his chin slightly and asked, “Now?”

Meng Chuan’s eyes dropped to his lips again, as if carefully inspecting them. After a second, he shook his head. “Nothing now.”

Wen Zhongyi gave a small nod and didn’t pursue the matter further. He went into the kitchen and rinsed his cup.

In the living room, Meng Chuan quietly let out a breath and sat on the sofa reflecting on himself.

He didn’t understand why his mind had gone there. It had clearly been a completely ordinary moment.

And it wasn’t the first time. Lately, whenever he was with Wen Zhongyi, Meng Chuan found himself having all kinds of inexplicable thoughts. He’d think he looked good, seemed kind of cute—and sometimes things far less appropriate, like just now.

By the time Wen Zhongyi came back out of the kitchen, the scent of alpha pheromones in the air had mostly faded.

Back when they’d first started living together, Meng Chuan never wore pheromone blockers. He said he wasn’t used to them and couldn’t control himself well. As a result, he often released thick waves of pheromones without warning, making it difficult for Wen Zhongyi to endure, even throwing his heat cycle off schedule.

Later, Wen Zhongyi realized it was all intentional.

Meng Chuan had excellent control outside the house—he only let loose when he was home. He clearly enjoyed seeing Wen Zhongyi flushed and helpless.

But now, with his memory gone, Meng Chuan truly didn’t know how to control his pheromones.

Wen Zhongyi had considered teaching him again, but worried he’d just go back to his old ways. After some thought, he gave up on the idea.

He checked the time and turned on the TV, switching it to a documentary channel.

After a few commercials, the title “Stories from the OB-GYN Ward” appeared on screen.

“You like this show?” Meng Chuan asked from the side.

Wen Zhongyi gave a quiet “Mm,” pulled a blanket over his legs, and leaned back against the sofa, watching the screen.

The documentary focused on OB-GYN doctors, using real-life cases. The doctors also explained details about pregnancy.

Wen Zhongyi had stumbled on it by chance and found it interesting, so he started watching it every evening.

He was watching intently now, his phone turned face down on his lap, giving the screen his full attention.

Meng Chuan watched along with him.

The current episode followed a young woman going through a difficult labor. The camera moved from the consultation room to the operating table. The doctors were working in an orderly manner, but the atmosphere was heavy.

The narration described the dangers of the surgery.

Childbirth itself was a grueling ordeal. Even as a bystander, it made the heart clench—it was hard to imagine how much more painful it must be for the woman herself.

Fortunately, the operation was a success. After it ended, another round of commercials began.

Meng Chuan took a sip of water and sighed. “Giving birth is no joke.”

Wen Zhongyi’s hand instinctively rested on his lower belly. He didn’t respond.

Meng Chuan added, “I remember seeing something online once—it said that you must really love someone to be willing to have a child with them.”

Equating love with childbirth was an oversimplification. Wen Zhongyi didn’t agree with it, but he didn’t argue.

He’d made the decision to have a child one year after they got married.

It wasn’t out of obligation or anything else—he simply wanted to have a child with Meng Chuan.

Their child would be born of love and anticipation, would call him Dad, call Meng Chuan Father, and grow up by their side. Gender didn’t matter—health and happiness were enough.

The moment he found out he was pregnant, Wen Zhongyi had felt genuine happiness.

He wanted to share that joy with Meng Chuan, but he’d been too late.

Wen Zhongyi wasn’t sure how this current Meng Chuan would react if he found out. Probably not overjoyed. More likely shocked.

And today, Meng Chuan had made him fall to the ground. While it hadn’t caused serious harm, Wen Zhongyi was still irritated, and made a mental note of it.

Since the memory loss, Meng Chuan had done quite a few things that upset him. Wen Zhongyi remembered every single one.

By the time the documentary ended, nearly an hour had passed.

Wen Zhongyi glanced at Meng Chuan. Before he could say anything, Meng Chuan, already anticipating it, raised a hand. “I’ll leave in a bit. But help me with something first.”

He opened the plastic bag beside him and pulled out the ointment. “Help me apply it to my back.”

“…Is it really that bad?” Wen Zhongyi asked skeptically.

“Do you not realize how strong you are?” Meng Chuan twisted his body and hissed.

Wen Zhongyi was silent for a moment, suspecting he was exaggerating.

Before the amnesia, Meng Chuan would also groan dramatically in front of him, even over minor injuries.

Seeing him stay quiet, Meng Chuan assumed he was unwilling and explained, “I live alone, no one to help apply it. I can’t reach it myself. Besides, you’re the one who slammed me.”

Wen Zhongyi stared at him for a moment, then finally reached out. “Give it to me.”

Meng Chuan curled the corners of his mouth and handed him the ointment and gauze, telling him how to use it.

“Got it.” Wen Zhongyi stood and moved to his side. Looking him in the eyes, he said, “Take your shirt off.”

Meng Chuan grabbed the hem of his sweater and pulled it off cleanly, revealing a muscular chest riddled with old scars.

Memory may fade, but the marks left by time do not.

During the four years in Sanka, three of those were spent amid war.

He’d followed Wen Zhongyi through life and death, and also carried out countless missions alone. Some wounds had faded, but others remained forever etched in his skin.

Meng Chuan had once joked that they were his medals of honor.

Wen Zhongyi knew the origin of every single scar. He’d traced them with his fingers, kissed them with his lips, and cried over them.

The most brutal scar was the gunshot wound on his chest, just millimeters from his heart—left there when he shielded Wen Zhongyi from a bullet.

The moment the gunshot rang out, he’d reacted instantly and thrown himself in front of Wen Zhongyi without hesitation.

The sight of Meng Chuan collapsing had haunted Wen Zhongyi ever since, a nightmare he could never escape.

Now, looking at these scars still made his heart ache and soften.

Meng Chuan noticed his dazed stare and looked down at his chest too, assuming he was stunned by his physique. So, in a tone that seemed casual but was clearly showing off, he said, “I only train like three hours a day. Been slacking lately since work’s been busy. I should get back to it tonight.”

Wen Zhongyi clenched the tube of ointment in his hand. He lowered his head, took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. His voice was a bit hoarse. “Turn around.”

Meng Chuan obediently turned and leaned over the sofa arm.