POTINS 18

When Meng Chuan pushed the door open, the call on Wen Zhongyi’s phone hadn’t ended yet.

With his long legs, he stepped around the tables and chairs, walked straight to Wen Zhongyi’s side, locked eyes with him first, then cast a blank glance at Jiang Ye sitting across the table.

Jiang Ye set down his chopsticks and looked at him with a faint, amused smile.

Meng Chuan found his face familiar at first glance but couldn’t recall where he’d seen him, so he ignored him and looked down at Wen Zhongyi instead.

He curled his fingers and tapped the table, calling out full name and all: “Wen Zhongyi, are you done eating?”

Wen Zhongyi put down his phone and frowned at him. “What are you doing?”

“I need to go home and get my lighter.” Meng Chuan emphasized the words go home.

Wen Zhongyi had indeed nearly finished eating and asked, “Right now?”

Meng Chuan nodded and insisted, “Right now.”

Wen Zhongyi didn’t understand why Meng Chuan had to come all the way here in person to say something that could’ve been said over the phone—and with such a bad attitude.

Jiang Ye’s eyes drifted between the two of them, thoughtful.

Wen Zhongyi gave Jiang Ye an apologetic smile. “I’ll head back first. Take your time eating.”

Jiang Ye wiped his mouth and smiled gently. “Alright, see you next time.”

“What next time?” Meng Chuan interrupted impatiently, clearly fed up. “Hurry up.”

“What’s the rush?” Wen Zhongyi put on his coat, got up, and walked over to Meng Chuan. He gave Jiang Ye a polite goodbye.

Meng Chuan smoothed out the edge of Wen Zhongyi’s slightly curled coat and then casually draped an arm over his shoulder, walking out as if no one else were around.

Once in the car, Wen Zhongyi caught a whiff of lingering cigarette smoke.

Not too pleased, he rolled the window down and asked, “Don’t you have other lighters?”

Meng Chuan buckled his seatbelt, started the car, and answered, “None work as well as that one.”

As the car sped away from the street, he asked, “Was that the guy who messaged you last night?”

Wen Zhongyi gave a noncommittal “Mm.”

“How did you meet?” Meng Chuan followed up immediately.

Wen Zhongyi frowned, annoyed by the interrogative tone, and shot back, “What does it have to do with you?”

Meng Chuan gripped the steering wheel tightly. Remembering the extra pair of slippers in the entryway, he said with some dissatisfaction, “How does it not? You’re living in my place. Don’t I have a right to know who you’re bringing home?”

Wen Zhongyi looked at his profile, stayed quiet for a while, then said, “The one I brought back wasn’t him. It was another friend. He only stayed a short while and didn’t spend the night.”

Meng Chuan had looked into Wen Zhongyi before and found that he currently had only one known friend—a college sophomore.

Meng Chuan hadn’t met this student yet, but he figured a university kid probably wouldn’t have any bad intentions. The man Wen Zhongyi had eaten with today, however, was another story—slick, shifty-eyed, clearly bad news.

So he warned Wen Zhongyi, “That guy you had dinner with today? Not a good person. Stay away from him.”

“And how do you know he’s not a good person?” Wen Zhongyi found it ridiculous.

“I could tell at a glance,” Meng Chuan said shamelessly. “Anyway, you’d better not see him again.”

“…If your judgment’s so sharp, why don’t you go help the police catch criminals?”

“I’d love to.” Meng Chuan tugged at his collar and rolled up his sleeves, letting out a breath. “You think I want to be a CEO?”

The bite in his words was too strong. Wen Zhongyi didn’t respond. He simply looked at Meng Chuan’s arm, where the veins stood out faintly, and suddenly asked, “I just had dinner with someone, why are you so upset?”

Meng Chuan was momentarily stunned by the question, silent, a flicker of confusion crossing his face.

Ever since he’d accidentally seen Wen Zhongyi chatting and laughing with that man, something had flipped inside him. He’d felt uncomfortable all over, like a switch had been thrown, and he couldn’t stand it. He had to drag Wen Zhongyi back to his side.

But the emotion had come out of nowhere. Meng Chuan didn’t know why he felt so unhappy.

Three intersections passed, and he still hadn’t figured it out.

Wen Zhongyi didn’t press him. He simply looked at his face and smiled slightly.

His lashes were long, and when lowered, they easily hid the emotion in his eyes. Meng Chuan couldn’t read his expression, but he felt a sense of regret and quiet sorrow.

Back home, Wen Zhongyi handed the lighter back to him and said, “You should quit smoking. It’s bad for your health.”

Meng Chuan accepted the lighter, rubbing it in his palm. After a moment, he asked, “Did I quit smoking during the past four years?”

“Yes,” Wen Zhongyi’s lashes trembled. He looked at him and asked softly, “Did you remember something?”

There was a faint trace of hope in his eyes.

Meng Chuan shook his head. “No.”

That hope extinguished, and Wen Zhongyi’s gaze dimmed slightly. “Then why did you ask?”

“Because I used to have a heavy nicotine addiction. I’d smoke every time I felt upset. But after I lost my memory, the craving faded a lot—almost disappeared,” Meng Chuan explained quietly. “But then someone offered me a cigarette, and I didn’t refuse. The cravings came back pretty quickly. I just wondered… why did I quit in the first place?”

Quitting was hard. As far as he knew himself, Meng Chuan wouldn’t have done it unless it was absolutely necessary. He wanted to know what that reason had been.

He raised an eyebrow and looked at Wen Zhongyi.

Wen Zhongyi turned his head away without answering.

Meng Chuan had quit smoking for him.

The reason was simple: Wen Zhongyi didn’t like the smell of smoke.

It had indeed been a difficult process, Meng Chuan had failed several times along the way. Wen Zhongyi had even softened at one point, telling him he didn’t have to quit entirely, just not to smoke in front of him.

But Meng Chuan still quit.

With a reason like that, Wen Zhongyi found himself unable to say it out loud under Meng Chuan’s probing gaze.

Recalling that Wen Zhongyi hated the smell of smoke, Meng Chuan tentatively asked, “Was someone forcing me to quit?”

Wen Zhongyi met his gaze. His lips moved. “No.”

“Really?” Meng Chuan was skeptical.

Wen Zhongyi replied irritably, “Why are you looking at me like that? I didn’t force you.”

“Alright.” Meng Chuan thought it over for a moment. “Then I must’ve quit willingly.”

But why would he do that of his own accord?

Meng Chuan frowned in confusion. His eyes were filled with curiosity, puzzlement, and a trace of longing—but in the end, he just shook his head with a sigh.

He couldn’t remember. Not a single clue.

Meng Chuan rubbed his temples, then gave Wen Zhongyi a wry smile and said, half joking, “I feel like a formatted robot. Maybe I need someone to reinstall my software.”

Wen Zhongyi looked at him, his eyes showing something Meng Chuan couldn’t understand.

“Forget it.” Meng Chuan stopped dwelling on it and smiled lightly. “One day, I’ll remember.”

He walked over to the couch, sat down like he always did, picked up the remote, turned on the TV, and flipped to a random channel for background noise.

“I’m hungry,” Meng Chuan said. “Got anything to eat here?”

Hearing that, Wen Zhongyi opened the bag of chestnut pastries, took one out, hesitated, then reluctantly split it in half and handed the smaller piece to Meng Chuan. “Want some?”

Meng Chuan: “…”

He gave the pastry a disdainful glance. “No. Doesn’t look as good as the ones I bought you.”

Wen Zhongyi frowned, disagreeing. “That’s not true. These are really good too.”

“I’m not eating that. You eat it.” Meng Chuan looked around. “Got any instant noodles?”

Wen Zhongyi took a bite of the pastry, speaking with his mouth full. “Nope.”

The snacks Yang Jiaran had brought were already gone, and Wen Zhongyi didn’t like to stockpile food.

“Just order takeout,” he said.

“I’m starving. Can’t wait for delivery.” Meng Chuan got up, wandered over to the fridge, opened it, and found not even frozen dumplings inside. Just raw ingredients.

Wen Zhongyi noticed his hesitation and helpfully suggested, “You could make some cream mushroom pasta. And maybe cream mushroom soup too.”

Meng Chuan: “What the hell is that? I don’t know how.”

“You do.” Wen Zhongyi was certain. “There are ingredients in the fridge. Use whatever you want.”

With that encouragement, Meng Chuan reluctantly carried a bunch of ingredients into the kitchen, still full of doubt.

“I want some too,” Wen Zhongyi called after him. “Make a little extra.”

Picking up an onion that had fallen on the floor, Meng Chuan muttered without turning his head, “I’ll poison you with it.”

Strangely enough, though he didn’t recall ever making this dish, his body moved on its own, like the motions had been programmed in. Every step came naturally.

When he saw the finished product, Meng Chuan couldn’t believe it, he’d actually made it, and it even looked pretty good.

Wen Zhongyi followed the smell into the kitchen and took the pasta and soup out to the table.

Aside from chestnut pastries, cream mushrooms were his favorite. He’d been craving them for a long time, and now he finally got to eat them.

Sitting across the table, heads close, Meng Chuan watched him eat with obvious pleasure and couldn’t help but sneer, “Didn’t get enough from your dinner with that guy?”

Wen Zhongyi ignored him, finished the soup, and ate half the pasta. He was too full to continue and finally set down his fork. Leaning back in his chair, he rubbed his belly.

Watching his slender fingers moving in circles over his stomach, Meng Chuan asked, “Did I used to make this often?”

Wen Zhongyi nodded, then gave an honest critique: “This one’s not as good as before.”

“…”

Meng Chuan, who prided himself on never cooking, fell silent for two seconds. He stabbed a forkful of pasta and snorted through his nose. “If it’s not good, don’t eat it. Spit it out.”

Wen Zhongyi looked up at him, then stuck out his tongue and made a mock-gagging face.

Meng Chuan: “…”

After dinner, it was Meng Chuan who cleaned up the dishes while Wen Zhongyi lounged on the couch, still rubbing his belly.

After a while, Wen Zhongyi stood and took a slow stroll around the living room.

Since he hadn’t experienced any nausea lately, he sometimes even forgot he was pregnant.

Wen Zhongyi walked into the kitchen—only to suddenly slip. He let out an instinctive “Ah!”

Meng Chuan immediately turned back. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” Wen Zhongyi caught his balance, exhaled in lingering fear, and frowned at the puddle on the floor. “Why is there water everywhere?”

“From washing vegetables,” Meng Chuan said, sleeves rolled up as he continued scrubbing.

Wen Zhongyi didn’t understand how washing mushrooms and onions had made such a mess. He carefully backed out of the kitchen and said, “Mop the floor when you’re done.”

The way he said it sounded just like a supervisor on an inspection, completely indifferent to the mood of the hardworking underling.

Meng Chuan rebelled. “Why don’t you lift a finger?”

The “supervisor” ignored the question and added, “The mop’s in the bathroom. Don’t forget to put the unused ingredients back in the fridge.”

Meng Chuan finished washing the dishes, mopped the floor, tidied the kitchen and fridge—all while being bossed around like a live-in servant.

And the worst part? After all that, he was heartlessly thrown out.

“I’m a bit tired today. I want to sleep early. You should go.” Wen Zhongyi shut the door in his face.

Meng Chuan looked at the tightly closed door, then at the trash bag in his hand, and completely lost it. “Wen, you heartless bastard! Why the hell am I waiting on you? Get out of my house already!”

Click—the door actually opened.

Wen Zhongyi stood at the doorway, his handsome face expressionless under the light. “What did you just say?”

“…”

In that instant, a jolt of instinct shot through Meng Chuan like electricity up his spine, as if someone had stomped on his tail.

He swallowed all his curses, forced a smile, and said, “Nothing. Just… sweet dreams. Goodnight.”