POTINS 42

Meng Chuan carried that bouquet around with a silly grin for several days, even posting it to his Moments feed, which shocked his entire gang of friends—who all messaged him asking who had sent it.

So far, only Ji Shu knew about him and Wen Zhongyi. Meng Chuan casually brushed them off with some vague excuse.

He ate every last bite of the cake in the fridge, and even the delicate roses—hard to keep alive—were thriving under his care.

Meanwhile, Wen Zhongyi’s belly was growing by the day. Loose clothes could no longer hide it, and in pajamas, it was plain to see.

What followed was an unbearable ache in his lower back.

The nerve pain kept him from sleeping properly for a week straight. It was a normal part of pregnancy, and besides heat compresses and massages, there wasn’t much that could relieve it.

Wen Zhongyi was in pain and in a foul mood, and he had no shortage of complaints for Meng Chuan.

“Can’t you press harder? It still hurts like this,” Wen Zhongyi lay on his side in bed, a cushion under his waist, frowning, clearly unhappy. “Turn the lights down a bit—they’re glaring.”

Meng Chuan adjusted the bedside light as asked and kept massaging his lower back, coaxing him, “The doctor said not to press too hard. I’ll rub somewhere else, and then I’ll get a heat compress, okay?”

Wen Zhongyi didn’t reply, but the tension in his brows slowly eased.

Meng Chuan brought the salt bag and tucked it under his waist, then massaged his legs.

Wen Zhongyi had been so slim before, but pregnancy had added some softness. Though he still didn’t look too different outwardly, Meng Chuan knew his body so well he could feel every subtle change with his hands.

Once the pain eased, Wen Zhongyi turned to lie on his back, closed his eyes under the dim light, and prepared to sleep.

Meng Chuan gently laid his legs down and covered him with a blanket, watching him in silence for a while.

Wen Zhongyi suddenly opened his eyes. “Why are you staring at me?”

Meng Chuan lowered his lashes, leaned in and kissed his brow. In a soft voice, he said, “One child is enough for us.”

Wen Zhongyi blinked, caught off guard by the emotion in his tone. “I wasn’t planning on having a second one anyway.”

Meng Chuan hummed in agreement, lay down beside him, turned off the light, and said into the dark, “When I have time, I’ll go to the hospital and get a vasectomy.”

Wen Zhongyi chuckled lightly. “Feeling sorry for me?”

Meng Chuan rested his palm gently on his belly, nuzzled his shoulder, and was about to speak—when he suddenly felt a small movement under his hand.

He froze. “…Did you feel that?”

Wen Zhongyi also quieted his breathing. “He just moved.”

They looked at each other, their eyes filled with amazement.

Wen Zhongyi placed his own hand over the spot, and Meng Chuan cupped it from above. The movement hadn’t stopped—it was subtle, but impossible to ignore.

That strange sensation made Wen Zhongyi’s chest warm. He said softly to Meng Chuan, “He’s swimming in there like a little fish.”

Even after the movement faded, he couldn’t bear to move his hand away.

It was the first time he had clearly felt Liuyi’s presence, more real and fulfilling than any image on an exam screen.

After the first flutter of movement, Xiao Liuyi started getting more and more active.

Books said 3 to 5 kicks an hour was considered normal. Wen Zhongyi would count them carefully each time, just to be sure this little life inside him was safe and well.

When he didn’t feel movement, he’d use the fetal Doppler to listen to Liuyi’s heartbeat.

In the past, he thought spending time on repetitive, meaningless things was a waste—but now, it felt like happiness.

That evening, Meng Chuan brought Wen Zhongyi another bouquet—perhaps making up for missing the anniversary gift. Lately, he’d been bringing home small surprises every day.

Sometimes it was flowers, sometimes desserts, sometimes little trinkets to win Wen Zhongyi’s favor.

Wen Zhongyi never said much, but he secretly looked forward to what Meng Chuan would bring back each day.

Meng Chuan placed the flowers in his arms and asked, “How’s your back today?”

“Alright. Not too bad.” Wen Zhongyi said. “You don’t have to keep bringing me flowers. We’re running out of space.”

“Okay,” Meng Chuan replied. “I’ll bring something else tomorrow.”

So the next day, he brought home a bag of goldfish. He even bought a tank and poured them in.

Wen Zhongyi loved it and spent a long time watching them.

The following morning, before going to work, Meng Chuan sprinkled some feed into the tank, tapped the glass, and said to the fish, “Don’t forget to blow bubbles for him today.”

By the end of the month, the weather finally began to warm up.

Even though Wen Zhongyi didn’t have to go to work, he went downstairs every day to walk and get some sun. He took off the bulky down jacket and switched to an overcoat that concealed his belly.

He walked carefully, and whenever he got tired, he’d sit down on a recliner.

He’d met quite a few of the neighbors by now. Everyone in the complex was friendly and often greeted him or chatted for a bit.

But there was one person Wen Zhongyi found a little odd.

He ran into the man in the garden. The guy wore a hat and mask, holding a camera and seemed to be photographing budding flowers.

As Wen Zhongyi walked by, the man smiled and asked if he wanted to see the photos he had just taken.

Wen Zhongyi stepped over and took a look.

His photography skills were excellent—the flowers looked beautiful. Wen Zhongyi genuinely praised, “Nice shots.”

“Thanks.”

The man’s face was mostly hidden, and Wen Zhongyi couldn’t see his expression, but there was something about his gaze that made him uncomfortable.

His eyes lingered on Wen Zhongyi’s slightly swollen belly and he asked, “Did you overeat and come out to digest?”

Wen Zhongyi frowned slightly. That look was strange. He didn’t reply, just nodded and walked away.

That night, Wen Zhongyi told Meng Chuan about the encounter.

Meng Chuan hissed. “From your description, sounds like a paparazzo.”

Wen Zhongyi had been in this world long enough to know what that meant. “But paparazzi go after celebrities, don’t they?”

“I am one,” Meng Chuan said.

Wen Zhongyi paused. It had been so long since he’d followed any financial news, he almost forgot Meng Chuan was still a CEO.

Meng Chuan rubbed his chin. “Feels fishy. I’ll have someone look into it tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Wen Zhongyi said.

They didn’t bring it up again that night. Wen Zhongyi read in bed while Meng Chuan rested his head on his belly, listening.

After a while, he felt the skin under his cheek move slightly and immediately reported, “He kicked! He kicked!”

“I know.” Wen Zhongyi smiled, gently pushing his head. Meng Chuan’s hair tickled his stomach.

Meng Chuan lifted his head, touched Wen Zhongyi’s belly, and said to Xiao Liuyi inside, “Stop kicking. Time to sleep. Daddy’s going to sleep too.”

Wen Zhongyi closed his book, chuckling. “He can’t understand you.”

And sound through the belly would be distorted anyway.

But Meng Chuan didn’t care—he babbled to the belly every night.

Honestly, Wen Zhongyi sometimes couldn’t help talking to Xiao Liuyi too, lowering his voice as if the baby could understand.

As time went on, Meng Chuan began to remember more moments spent with Wen Zhongyi.

Some of the memories even began to connect like puzzle pieces. He felt like he was piecing together a map—and once he completed it, the old Meng Chuan would return, whole.

For the next checkup, as always, Meng Chuan and Zhou Lu went with him.

On the way, Wen Zhongyi sat in the back chatting with Zhou Lu. He no longer felt awkward around her—speaking to her felt as natural as speaking to a parent.

“Your hair’s getting long,” Zhou Lu touched the back of his head. “Want a trim?”

Before he could answer, she quietly added, “Or maybe don’t cut it. I know how to tie hair—I can make it look really good.”

“Aiyah, Mom,” Meng Chuan laughed from the front, “you treating him like a little girl?”

“Boys can have long hair too,” Zhou Lu shot back, then turned to Wen Zhongyi, “What do you think, Xiao Wen? Don’t mind what I said—do whatever you prefer.”

Wen Zhongyi honestly didn’t care. As a kid, his dad had let him grow it out too. But tying it every day was troublesome, and his dad wasn’t great at styling—it always looked messy. Eventually, his dad had felt bad and just cut it off.

“I’ll keep it,” Wen Zhongyi said.

At a red light, he looked out the window.

In the next lane was a black sedan, slightly behind theirs. By chance, he saw the driver.

The man wore sunglasses and a hoodie, plus headphones—he seemed to be talking to someone.

Meng Chuan’s car had tinted windows—there was no way the man could see him—yet his gaze seemed to shift toward Wen Zhongyi.

He suddenly remembered the person from last week in the garden.

Meng Chuan had said the man wasn’t a resident, though he had registered at the gate.

After a background check using his ID, they’d found out he used to be a professional photographer, now jobless.

He entered the complex under the referral of another resident, claiming he was there to take photos.

The resident turned out to be a manager at a foreign company—no business or rivalry with Meng Chuan.

It seemed like the guy really was just there to photograph scenery.

The rest of the way, Wen Zhongyi chatted with Zhou Lu absentmindedly, eyes flicking to the window. The black car kept drifting closer and farther.

Meng Chuan clearly noticed something was off too—he frowned and sped up, changing routes.

Zhou Lu was puzzled. “Why aren’t we going to the hospital?”

“The doctor’s running late,” Meng Chuan said calmly, “let’s drive around a bit first.”

He drove in loops, turning randomly, until they finally lost the black car at an intersection.

Wen Zhongyi breathed a sigh of relief.

Half an hour later, they circled back to the private hospital. “We’re here,” Meng Chuan said.

Wen Zhongyi straightened his clothes and got out.

Meng Chuan accompanied him into the exam room again.

In the 4D ultrasound, Xiao Liuyi’s features were clearer now—eyes shut, breathing quietly.

Meng Chuan leaned in close and confidently told Wen Zhongyi, “The nose looks like mine. The mouth like yours.”

Wen Zhongyi tilted his head at the screen. “The face shape’s mine too.”

“Is it? I think it looks like me,” Meng Chuan said.

“It’s mine,” Wen Zhongyi replied.

Meng Chuan looked down at him and, with a compromising smile, said, “Alright, alright—it looks like you.”