POTINS 22

Wen Zhongyi was woken by a series of knocks on the door.

The banging, mixed with the incessant ringing of the doorbell, dragged him out of a hazy sleep.

By now, daylight was pouring in—the sun clearly high in the sky. The snowstorm had stopped, and bright sunlight filtered through the curtains.

Wen Zhongyi squinted, lifted the blanket, and got out of bed. The moment his feet touched the floor, it felt strangely soft, as if he were stepping on cotton. His body swayed—only then did he realize how light-headed he was.

The one knocking was Yang Jiaran.

As soon as Wen Zhongyi opened the door, Yang Jiaran let out a long breath of relief, then glared at him. “You scared me half to death, Wen Zhongyi!”

“No replies to messages, no answering calls, zero WeChat steps, and the doorbell rings for ages with no one responding—are you trying to kill me with worry?” Yang Jiaran stepped inside, looking both anxious and angry. His words were rapid and scolding, but the concern in his tone was obvious. “Don’t tell me you just woke up—it’s already so late. If you hadn’t come to the door, I was about to call a locksmith.”

Wen Zhongyi was in pajamas, clearly just out of bed. He gave Yang Jiaran an apologetic smile. “My phone died, and I didn’t realize I slept that long.”

As he spoke, he noticed how hoarse his voice was.

Yang Jiaran’s expression shifted to one of concern as he looked closely at his face. “What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

Wen Zhongyi cleared his throat and mumbled, “Maybe.”

Last night’s snowstorm had been brutally cold. When he got home, he couldn’t stop sneezing and had thought a warm sleep would fix it—but instead, it turned into a bad cold.

Yang Jiaran pushed him onto the sofa and shoved a cup of hot water into his hands.

“Do you have any cold medicine at home?” he asked.

Wen Zhongyi shook his head. “No.”

Yang Jiaran looked at his pale face and sighed. “I’ll go buy some. You drink the water and lie down in bed to rest.”

Wen Zhongyi said it wasn’t necessary, but Yang Jiaran wouldn’t hear it. “You’re the patient now, and patients need to behave. Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

With that, he bundled up and left.

Wen Zhongyi sat on the sofa alone, obediently finished the hot water, brushed his teeth and washed up, then went back to the bedroom.

His phone on the nightstand had charged halfway. He turned on the screen and found a pile of unread messages.

Most were from Yang Jiaran. There was also one from the bookstore owner, asking why he hadn’t come to work that morning.

Wen Zhongyi sent a brief explanation, and the boss replied quickly: Then rest well at home.

There was one message from Meng Chuan, but it had been retracted. Wen Zhongyi didn’t know what he had said, and he didn’t ask.

Yang Jiaran returned soon with medicine. Wen Zhongyi got up to let him in and registered his fingerprint in the door lock.

“Next time, just come in directly,” Wen Zhongyi said.

Yang Jiaran was visibly touched. “You’re so good to me.”

He was carrying cold medicine and a warm egg-filled flatbread, his nose red from the cold, yet he still told Wen Zhongyi he was good to him.

Wen Zhongyi had always seen him as a younger brother, and now he softened even more. He smiled gently. “Silly kid.”

Yang Jiaran placed the medicine on the coffee table. It was a full set, since colds were common this time of year.

“Eat the flatbread first. You can’t take medicine on an empty stomach.” He handed the hot food to Wen Zhongyi.

Wen Zhongyi wasn’t very hungry and stopped after a couple of bites. Yang Jiaran didn’t push him.

After taking the medicine, Wen Zhongyi went back to bed. Yang Jiaran stayed with him a while, and when he saw that Wen Zhongyi was about to drift off, he said, “I have to go. There’s a seminar this afternoon. I can’t stay to take care of you. If you feel unwell, call me—I’ll come over as soon as I can.”

Wen Zhongyi nodded. He tried to get up to see him out, but Yang Jiaran pressed him down. “Lie down like a good patient. I can see myself out.”

The door opened and closed. Wen Zhongyi heard the soft click of the lock, then shut his eyes again, slipping back into drowsiness.

The cold not only made him groggy, it also threw his pheromones out of balance.

Half-asleep, he could feel the gland at the back of his neck pulsing erratically.

He began dreaming again, scenes from the past, all of them about Meng Chuan.

Wen Zhongyi dreamt of war, of gunfire. Injuries on the battlefield were commonplace, and pain was something he could endure.

But this pain felt different.

His brows furrowed, his body curling in on itself. The hand resting on his stomach instinctively clenched his shirt.

Cold sweat soaked his temples. Wen Zhongyi opened his eyes and let out a muffled groan of pain.

A sharp, sudden cramping made it impossible to straighten his back. He clutched his abdomen, unable to tell exactly where it hurt—all he knew was that his entire lower torso was wracked with intense, churning pain, like something sharp was tearing him apart from the inside.

If it had been before, he might’ve suspected his chronic gastritis was acting up again. But now that he was pregnant, Wen Zhongyi couldn’t help but think of the worst.

He didn’t hesitate. He grabbed his phone, turned on the screen, and instinctively called Meng Chuan.

“Hello?”

The heat from his estrus had already faded. Meng Chuan’s voice had returned to its usual clarity.

He was in the middle of an online meeting at home. The people in the meeting fell silent when they realized he was answering a call.

Wen Zhongyi didn’t know he was in a meeting. Over the phone, he said, “…I’m not feeling well.”

His voice was low and hoarse, like he was enduring intense pain. Meng Chuan froze for a moment, then told the meeting, “We’ll pause here,” took off his headset, muted his mic, and asked, “What’s wrong?”

“My stomach hurts.” Wen Zhongyi’s voice hitched, and he exhaled shakily before continuing, “Come take me to the hospital.”

Meng Chuan didn’t hesitate. “Okay.”

As he spoke, he was already getting up, quickly pulling on clothes, texting his assistant to end the meeting early while heading out the door.

His silver sports car raced through the streets. In under fifteen minutes, Meng Chuan arrived downstairs at Wen Zhongyi’s place.

He took the elevator up, unlocked the door with his fingerprint, and within seconds was at the bedroom door.

Meng Chuan pushed it open and saw Wen Zhongyi curled up in bed under the covers.

The scene was a perfect reversal of the night before.

The lingering rose scent in the air almost made Meng Chuan react on the spot. By now, he was certain that Wen Zhongyi’s scent was the very trigger that had driven him out of control—but he still didn’t understand why that scent could so easily ignite his desire.

Holding his breath, he approached the bed and gently lifted a corner of the blanket. “Are you okay?”

Wen Zhongyi was not okay.

His pajamas were soaked through with cold sweat. His face was deathly pale, and his whole body trembled uncontrollably.

“How are you in this much pain?” Meng Chuan frowned, scooped him up from under the covers, and—without asking if he wanted to change—grabbed a sweater from the bedside and slipped it on him. “Forget the pants, you’re in too much pain to care about appearances. Can you walk?”

Wen Zhongyi hunched over and tried to take a step, gritting his teeth. Then he shook his head and said, “Carry me.”

“Alright.”

Meng Chuan immediately bent down and picked him up in his arms, grabbed a coat, and draped it over him.

Wen Zhongyi looked thin, but even so, he was lighter than Meng Chuan had expected. Holding him securely, Meng Chuan strode out.

Snow had fallen all day and night, and the roads were slushy and muddy.

The car’s heater was on full blast, but even so, Wen Zhongyi was still cold lying in the backseat.

He kept his eyes closed, brows tightly furrowed, body swaying slightly with the motion of the car.

Traffic was crawling, what normally took ten minutes now took twenty due to congestion.

Meng Chuan glanced at the cars ahead, then at Wen Zhongyi’s ashen face in the rearview mirror. A strange, anxious tension welled up in him—he had the sudden urge to light a cigarette to calm down.

He was instinctively worried about Wen Zhongyi.

The cabin was quiet. Then Wen Zhongyi suddenly asked, “Which hospital are you taking me to?”

“The affiliated hospital,” Meng Chuan replied. “It’s the closest.”

The affiliated hospital was the best in the area. Wen Zhongyi knew this, but he said softly, “Go to a private hospital. Don’t take me to the affiliated one.”

Meng Chuan paused, recalling that Wen Zhongyi had mentioned not having an ID, and assumed that was the reason. “You don’t need an ID for emergency care.”

Wen Zhongyi blinked slowly but still refused. “I don’t want to go.”

“…Okay.”

His tone was so firm that Meng Chuan didn’t push it further. After passing a traffic light, he changed direction. On the way, he couldn’t help but ask, “Is your stomach hurting because of something you ate?”

Wen Zhongyi didn’t answer.

Meng Chuan glanced at the rearview mirror. He thought Wen Zhongyi had fallen asleep, but he was staring blankly into the mirror, his gaze emotionless. Their eyes met in the reflection, and Meng Chuan’s heart skipped a beat.

After a long silence, Wen Zhongyi sighed and said his name in a hesitant tone: “Meng Chuan.”

“Yeah.” Meng Chuan responded, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. He had a strong feeling that whatever Wen Zhongyi was about to say would shake him.

“I’ve never lied to you,” Wen Zhongyi suddenly said.

Aside from that one moment when Meng Chuan lost his ring—where he’d said something in anger—everything else he’d told him was true.

“Okay.” Meng Chuan swallowed hard.

Wen Zhongyi didn’t know if he actually believed him, probably not. Everything he’d told Meng Chuan so far sounded too ridiculous to someone with memory loss, including what he was about to say now.

But he really couldn’t keep hiding it any longer.

Even if he didn’t say it now, Meng Chuan would find out at the hospital during the examination. So Wen Zhongyi decided to give him a heads-up.

He hesitated for a moment too long. Meng Chuan’s unease only grew.

A green light loomed ahead with only four seconds left. Meng Chuan knew they wouldn’t make it, so he eased off the gas and asked, “What is it you want to say?”

“My stomach pain probably isn’t from bad food,” Wen Zhongyi said, and without giving any warning, added, “I’m pregnant.”

“…”

The green light turned red.

Meng Chuan’s sports car nearly rear-ended the vehicle in front.

His mind went blank, but his body snapped into action. He slammed the brakes hard, so hard the whole car lurched forward. In the back seat, Wen Zhongyi was nearly thrown off.

Startled, Wen Zhongyi shouted, “What kind of driving is that?!”

Meng Chuan let out a shaky breath.

He recognized every word Wen Zhongyi had just said—so why, when put together, did they make absolutely no sense?