POTINS 27

That evening, since Wen Zhongyi was being picky and only wanted to eat food made by Meng Chuan, the two of them went out together, planning to buy groceries at the supermarket.

“I can go by myself. You insisted on coming along. It’s so cold, you’ll catch a cold if you’re not careful.” Meng Chuan started the car and couldn’t help but grumble.

Wen Zhongyi sat in the passenger seat and fastened his seatbelt. “I haven’t stepped outside all day. I need some fresh air.”

Meng Chuan turned on the headlights and said while driving, “You can get fresh air by opening a window at home.”

Wen Zhongyi paused, realizing he had no comeback, then said stiffly, “Mind your own business.”

As the car merged onto the road, Wen Zhongyi adjusted the seat and leaned back. He noticed a pile of lollipops on the center console.

That used to be where Meng Chuan kept his cigarette pack—now it was stacked with candy.

“You quit smoking?” Wen Zhongyi asked.

Meng Chuan kept his eyes on the road. “Yeah, I quit.”

The supermarket was fairly crowded. The two of them grabbed a shopping cart and headed to the produce section.

Meng Chuan pushed the cart while Wen Zhongyi picked out his favorite fruits and vegetables.

The air was filled with the sweet scent of fresh produce. Meng Chuan sniffed and suddenly asked, “I have a question. In this world, can other people smell our pheromones, or is it just us?”

“They can’t,” Wen Zhongyi replied.

After a pause, Meng Chuan curiously asked again, “You said in your world, everyone except betas has their own pheromones. So if you’re walking down the street, wouldn’t all those smells mixed together be overwhelming?”

Wen Zhongyi was carefully picking out onions and replied without turning his head, “There are pheromone-blocking patches.”

“Oh.”

Meng Chuan stepped a little closer, taking in Wen Zhongyi’s scent, and asked, “What if someone deliberately doesn’t wear one? Wouldn’t that be uncomfortable for others?”

Wen Zhongyi sneered, “Do you think everyone’s as shameless as you?”

“…”

Meng Chuan stared at the exposed gland on the back of his neck and suddenly had the urge to touch it.

But before his wicked fingers could make contact, Wen Zhongyi seemed to sense something. He bent his elbow and drove it back—landing a clean hit to Meng Chuan’s abdomen.

Meng Chuan almost coughed up blood and blurted out, “You trying to murder your husband?!”

He didn’t control his volume, and a nearby auntie who was picking vegetables paused and looked over at them with a complicated expression.

Wen Zhongyi: “…”

He had never experienced this kind of look before. His face heated up in embarrassment, and he quickly turned and walked away faster.

Meng Chuan caught up, grinning. “What, embarrassed?”

Wen Zhongyi ignored him, so he rambled on: “What’s there to be embarrassed about? We’re married, already have a kid—hey, don’t walk so fast, be careful or you’ll fall.”

At his wit’s end, Wen Zhongyi grabbed a bundle of green onions off the shelf and smacked Meng Chuan hard on the butt with it. “Shut up already! You’re so annoying!”

Meng Chuan went off to weigh their vegetables, then joined Wen Zhongyi to pick up other daily essentials and supplements.

The shopping cart gradually filled up, and Wen Zhongyi wandered into the snack aisle.

Every time he picked something up, Meng Chuan would follow closely behind, scrutinizing the ingredient list like a food safety inspector.

“Look here—tert-butylhydroquinone.” Meng Chuan pointed at the tiny print, face serious. “Pregnant people can’t have this. Put it back.”

Wen Zhongyi hesitated but did as told. “How do you even know that?”

“Experts said so,” Meng Chuan replied.

He had traded his late-night gaming time for pregnancy knowledge, even subscribing to a series of online courses. Though he had a natural allergy to lectures and often dozed off midway, he still managed to absorb a good amount.

Wen Zhongyi was momentarily stunned, he hadn’t expected Meng Chuan to study on his own.

When they went to check out, Wen Zhongyi stepped outside first while Meng Chuan stayed behind in line.

Near the mall’s exit, there was a stall selling grilled sausages, swarmed with kids.

The smell lured Wen Zhongyi over. He hadn’t been a big snacker before, but lately, he found himself craving all sorts of things.

He bought one sausage and planned to finish it before Meng Chuan came out.

Unfortunately, he was caught mid-bite.

“You’re so disobedient,” Meng Chuan scolded, holding two heavy shopping bags with one hand and reaching out with the other to snatch the sausage away.

Wen Zhongyi was caught off guard, and the remaining half was seized.

“I didn’t eat that much. One bite won’t do any harm,” he protested.

“Half a sausage is enough.”

Meng Chuan said righteously, then ate the rest of it in front of him, licking the cumin off his lips and sighing, “Tastes good.”

Wen Zhongyi: “…”

On the drive back, Wen Zhongyi didn’t say a word to him.

Meng Chuan glanced at him a few times while steering, then cautiously asked, “Are you really mad?”

Wen Zhongyi kept his face turned to the window, cold and unapproachable from the side all the way to the back of his head, like an emotionless ice sculpture.

“Don’t be mad. I’ll make you other sausages when we get home,” Meng Chuan racked his brain. “How about sticky rice sausage? Or is there something else you want to eat?”

Still no response. Not even a glance.

Meng Chuan freed one hand, grabbed a lollipop, and held it out. “Here, have some candy.”

Wen Zhongyi glanced sideways and coldly said, “Not eating.”

“I’ll get a different flavor.”

Meng Chuan swapped it for a lychee one and held it out again. This time, Wen Zhongyi was silent for a few seconds before snatching the lollipop away without a word, still putting on a show of ignoring him.

Meng Chuan looked at his profile, heart tickled like it had been scratched by a cat, soft, and a little amused.

Wen Zhongyi liked lychee-flavored things. He thought they were sweeter than the rest.

He sucked on the candy and stared out at the fast-retreating scenery, his expression slowly softening.

After getting home, Meng Chuan opened the trunk and carried in the bags.

His well-trained biceps came in handy now, he didn’t even break a sweat hauling everything back in.

Wen Zhongyi turned on the living room lights. The heater filled the room with warmth, and the soft amber glow created a quiet, peaceful atmosphere.

He took off his coat and scarf, went to the bedroom to change into home clothes, and slipped on his slippers to boil a kettle of water.

Meng Chuan, meanwhile, put on an apron and carried some vegetables and meat into the kitchen.

The two each went about their tasks—seemingly minding their own business, yet operating in perfect harmony.

During dinner, Meng Chuan watched Wen Zhongyi chewing slowly across the table, and a realization crept in: he now had a lover, a baby, and a little home of his own.

He might have no memories, but that didn’t stop the warmth he felt in this moment.

Ever since Meng Chuan had moved in, Wen Zhongyi’s life had changed in small ways.

For example, he no longer needed to squeeze into the subway to get to work, Meng Chuan drove him. He didn’t have to order takeout for lunch anymore, someone would deliver a fresh, different meal to the bookstore every day.

And every night, when he came home, there was always a warm meal, perfectly suited to his taste.

Meng Chuan’s cooking had improved rapidly with practice. That evening, after a bowl of creamy mushroom soup, Wen Zhongyi finally showed some praise. “It’s good. Tastes a lot like what you made back in Sanka.”

Encouraged by the compliment, Meng Chuan made the same soup five days in a row, until Wen Zhongyi was so tired of it he gave it up.

“No more of this tomorrow,” Wen Zhongyi said expressionlessly. “Make something else.”

Though he’d grown sick of creamy mushrooms, his love for chestnut pastries remained unwavering.

After that dinner when he was pulled away by Meng Chuan from Jiang Ye’s place, he never returned to the shop.

But Jiang Ye still messaged him regularly, asking if he wanted chestnut puffs and offering to reserve them for him in advance.

Wen Zhongyi did want some, but every time he mentioned it, Meng Chuan would go buy them elsewhere for him. So he always declined Jiang Ye’s offers.

During a professional course in architecture that day, a familiar aroma wafted through the classroom.

Someone in the back was sneaking food, and the scent awakened Wen Zhongyi’s appetite. He couldn’t focus during the lecture and debated after class whether to go get some.

After thinking for two seconds, Wen Zhongyi decided not to deprive his stomach. He packed up and braved the cold wind to the dessert shop.

The forecast had issued a yellow cold warning the day before, and strong cold air was sweeping across the north.

That morning, before he left, Meng Chuan had wrapped a thick scarf around his neck, still terribly tied. Wen Zhongyi had taken it off after getting out of the car, but now, feeling cold again, he put it back on himself.

Due to the weather, the dessert shop was much less crowded than usual. There was no line outside, and only three students sat inside.

Wen Zhongyi lifted the curtain and entered, meeting Jiang Ye’s gaze as he sat in a chair.

Jiang Ye had already spotted him through the window and raised his brows with a small smile.

“I came to buy chestnut puffs,” Wen Zhongyi said.

“Bad timing.” Jiang Ye gave an apologetic look. “They’re all sold out today.”

Wen Zhongyi froze. It hadn’t even occurred to him on the way over that they might be out. He pressed his lips together, considering whether to try another place.

“But,” Jiang Ye stood and smiled, “if you really want some, I can make them for you now.”

Wen Zhongyi blinked. He thought Jiang Ye was a very considerate owner and said, “Thank you.”

The three students left after a short while, leaving Wen Zhongyi as the only customer in the shop.

Perhaps due to the low traffic that day, no other staff were present, Jiang Ye managed everything himself with ease.

Wen Zhongyi sat in a chair. The warm air from the heater quickly made him feel cozy.

Jiang Ye glanced over during a break in his work. “Cold? Want me to turn the heat up?”

“I’m fine. No need,” Wen Zhongyi replied.

After rolling the puffs, Jiang Ye put them in the oven, set the time and temperature, and leaned on the table. “You haven’t come in for a while.”

“I’ve been a bit busy lately,” Wen Zhongyi said tactfully.

Jiang Ye nodded, not asking what had kept him busy. He casually remarked, “I thought that person didn’t want you coming anymore.”

“That person” clearly referred to Meng Chuan.

Wen Zhongyi shook his head. “No.”

Jiang Ye chuckled lightly. After a pause, he asked, “Do you mind telling me, what’s your relationship with him?”

They weren’t particularly close, so it was a bit of a bold question.

“It’s not really something I can share,” Wen Zhongyi said.

Jiang Ye didn’t seem surprised by the answer. He smiled, nodded, and said no more.

The smell of chestnut puffs drifted from the oven, and Wen Zhongyi sniffed the air.

“Almost done,” Jiang Ye said.

Just then, his phone rang. He answered, saying, “Brother.”

Wen Zhongyi wasn’t interested in someone else’s call. His attention was on the golden puffs baking in the oven.

“No, I’m not sure either,” Jiang Ye said, glancing briefly at Wen Zhongyi. “Just stay out of my business. I won’t be home for dinner, don’t wait up.”

Finally, the oven dinged, the chestnut puffs were ready.

Jiang Ye carefully took out the tray, packed the warm puffs into a box, bagged them, and handed them to Wen Zhongyi.

“No need to pay,” he said. “My treat.”

“Please don’t.” Wen Zhongyi didn’t like owing people and insisted on paying before leaving with the bag.

By the time Yang Jiaran found Wen Zhongyi at the cafeteria, he had already eaten a piece.

Wen Zhongyi pushed the rest toward him. “Freshly baked. Really good.”

“You eat it.” Yang Jiaran had just finished class and brought two hot drinks. Knowing Wen Zhongyi couldn’t have coffee, he got him hot milk.

He had smoothly accepted the fact that Wen Zhongyi was pregnant and promised to keep it a secret.

Wen Zhongyi took the milk and sipped it. “Thanks, Jiaran.”

“No need. Want anything else? I’ll go get it.”

“No, thanks. I still have dinner later.”

Yang Jiaran looked knowingly at him and whispered, “President Meng cooks too?”

Wen Zhongyi nodded. “You should come over sometime. He’s actually a pretty good cook.”

“I’d rather not.” Yang Jiaran shook his head vigorously. “I’m afraid he’ll eat me alive with his eyes.”

Wen Zhongyi didn’t understand. “Why would he do that?”

Yang Jiaran pouted. “Who knows.”

Wen Zhongyi paused, thinking it might be time to have a proper talk with Meng Chuan. He couldn’t treat his friends like this.

Meng Chuan had been like this back in Sanka too, often hostile to anyone around Wen Zhongyi, talking behind their backs, trying to drive them away.

But back then, those people usually had questionable motives. Even without Meng Chuan’s meddling, Wen Zhongyi would’ve distanced himself.

Yang Jiaran, however, was different. He was a true friend.

That evening, Wen Zhongyi sat Meng Chuan down and seriously brought it up.

Forced to respond, Meng Chuan promised not to hold any more grudges against Yang Jiaran, though he grumbled, “Then he’s not allowed to hang all over you anymore either.”

He exaggerated “leaning on your arm” as “hugging,” which Wen Zhongyi found ridiculous. “Don’t you and Ji Shu used to hang on each other all the time?”

“I don’t give a damn about him,” Meng Chuan scoffed. “We stopped doing that after graduating high school.”

Wen Zhongyi didn’t continue that conversation. He leaned against the sofa, tapped Meng Chuan’s leg with his foot, and raised his chin. “Go heat up my milk. I’m getting ready for bed.”