POTINS 5

One dish after another was brought to the table. Wen Zhongyi nodded politely to the waiter in thanks.

Meng Chuan glanced at the spread and smirked. “You like chestnut pastries?”

Wen Zhongyi had only ordered one serving of everything else, but two of the chestnut pastries.

He nodded slightly and reached out to take a piece.

“The ones here are pretty famous, though they’re a bit sweet.” Meng Chuan watched him take a small bite and asked, “Good?”

Wen Zhongyi chewed slowly. His eyes seemed to brighten a little. After swallowing, he said, “Good.”

He ate two in a row, looking satisfied, before picking up his knife and fork to try the other dishes.

Meng Chuan found his apparent fondness for chestnut pastries rather amusing. “If you like them, have more. Not enough? I’ll order more.”

The food on this table suited Wen Zhongyi’s taste well—better than anything he’d had back in the restaurants of Sanka.

But still not as good as the food Meng Chuan used to make.

He only took one sip of the fish soup before setting it down. It made him feel slightly queasy. He still preferred the creamy mushroom soup Meng Chuan used to cook for him.

Meng Chuan was leisurely slicing his steak, his exposed forearm showing smooth, firm muscle lines.

Wen Zhongyi noticed a particularly prominent scar. Even after so long, it remained jagged and ugly.

Meng Chuan saw him staring and glanced down at it himself. He said casually, “Probably from the crash. Doctor said it was from broken glass.”

Wen Zhongyi was silent for a moment, then shook his head slightly. His voice was hoarse from the cold: “Not glass. A dagger.”

That had been during the second year of the war. Meng Chuan was deep behind enemy lines, wounded in close combat.

Wen Zhongyi knew every scar on his body.

The knife and fork in Meng Chuan’s hands paused. He stared at him and asked, “How do you know that?”

His gaze was sharp, searching. Wen Zhongyi turned away and covered his mouth, coughing lightly.

“You have a cold?” Meng Chuan, apparently trying to be considerate, poured him half a cup of hot water and handed it over. “Drink something warm.” Then he added, “You know what happened to me in those missing four years, don’t you?”

It was a question, but his tone left no doubt.

Wen Zhongyi took the cup and sipped from it, eyes lowered.

He didn’t even say “thank you,” as if Meng Chuan handing him water was only natural.

Meng Chuan raised an eyebrow at that.

After a few sips, Wen Zhongyi’s throat felt better. He said, “You probably won’t believe me.”

“Try me.” Meng Chuan set his utensils aside, assuming a posture of full attention.

After a brief moment of thought, Wen Zhongyi said, “You crossed worlds.”

“…Pfft.”

Meng Chuan couldn’t help but laugh, like he’d just heard the most ridiculous thing ever.

Seeing Wen Zhongyi frown, he cleared his throat and pretended to be intrigued. “Okay, so which era did I travel to? Ancient times?”

“You crossed to another planet. A parallel world,” Wen Zhongyi said. “It’s very different from here. For starters, the gender system is different. There are six sexes.”

“…………”

Meng Chuan gave him a look that said, Are you messing with me? He looked like he was about to laugh again, but held back. “Go on.”

Wen Zhongyi shot him a glance and gave a brief explanation of alphas, betas, and omegas, then added, “You were a beta. I don’t know how you managed to join the army, but the first time I saw you was on a training ground. I picked you for the assault team. The war had just broken out back then—fires and ruins everywhere. You and I… never mind.”

He cut himself off.

“Hmm? What about us?” Meng Chuan asked. “Why’d you stop? I want to hear more.”

Wen Zhongyi shot him a glare. “You wouldn’t believe it anyway. No point wasting breath.”

“That’s not true,” Meng Chuan said, chuckling. This guy clearly read a lot of melodramatic novels—he could spin nonsense like this without blinking.

He laughed for a while before saying, “World-hopping, wars, six genders—maybe lay off the fantasy books a bit? How about this: tell me the truth first, then I’ll listen to the fiction, deal?”

Wen Zhongyi ignored him. His knife and fork scraped sharply across the plate, making a grating noise.

Meng Chuan suddenly had the strange sense that Wen Zhongyi wasn’t slicing steak—he was imagining slitting his throat.

“I’m not lying,” Wen Zhongyi said.

Meng Chuan looked at his indifferent profile, thought for a moment, and gave a gracious nod. “Alright.”

Wen Zhongyi looked up at him—and saw the way Meng Chuan was barely suppressing a smirk. His expression darkened even more.

“Believe it or not, I don’t care,” he said.

Meng Chuan tried a few more subtle questions to pry out what had happened in those four missing years, but Wen Zhongyi didn’t respond to any of them.

“Alright.” Meng Chuan sighed, glancing at the now-cold food, clearly having lost his appetite. He looked at Wen Zhongyi again and said, “You seem to really mind the fact that I’ve forgotten you.”

Wen Zhongyi’s gaze shifted slightly, but he didn’t say anything.

He had probably had enough. He set down his knife and fork and slowly dabbed at his mouth with a napkin.

Meng Chuan watched him closely, not missing a single reaction. He probed, “What exactly was our relationship?”

Wen Zhongyi met Meng Chuan’s eyes and saw his own reflection in them.

He knew what it looked like when Meng Chuan loved someone wholeheartedly, and he also knew what kind of gaze he had when he was suspicious of someone.

Wen Zhongyi couldn’t bring himself to speak of their relationship under that sharp, scrutinizing gaze. The words caught in his throat.

It would make him look pathetic—make him feel pitiful.

He took a deep breath, pushing all emotion back down, keeping his face calm and composed.

Seeing that he still said nothing, Meng Chuan pressed on, “Were we friends? Enemies?”

After a long silence, with Meng Chuan still staring at him, Wen Zhongyi finally pressed his lips together and said, “You could say… friends.”

Meng Chuan nodded in understanding. Based on Wen Zhongyi’s made-up story, he smiled teasingly. “And you were my superior?”

Wen Zhongyi slightly lifted his chin and gave a flat “Mm.”

Meng Chuan chuckled. His posture and demeanor really did resemble a commanding officer—he was pulling it off well.

But Meng Chuan was still skeptical of what Wen Zhongyi had said. He wasn’t so naive as to trust a stranger completely.

Just as he was about to ask more, his phone rang. He answered, and his expression grew more serious.

Wen Zhongyi quietly broke off a piece of chestnut pastry and ate it slowly. He couldn’t make out what Meng Chuan was saying—probably work-related.

It was obvious Meng Chuan held a high status in this world. He was the wealthy, influential type. Quite different from the Meng Chuan of Sanka.

In Sanka, Meng Chuan had plenty of military merit and rose quickly in rank, but still wasn’t higher than Wen Zhongyi.

Now, the roles were reversed.

Meng Chuan’s voice was firm and commanding. “Got it. Send out the notice to all departments. I’m on my way.”

After hanging up, he turned to Wen Zhongyi. “Something urgent came up at work. I have to go—sorry I can’t finish the meal with you.”

Wen Zhongyi didn’t object. He nodded and said, “Go ahead.”

Meng Chuan smiled, slipping on his coat. “I was going to drive you back, but looks like you’ll have to get a cab. Is there anything else you want to eat? If not, I’ll go settle the bill.”

Most of the food had been eaten. Wen Zhongyi rested his hand on his belly, it looked like he was quite full.

Just as Meng Chuan fastened his buttons and was about to leave, he heard Wen Zhongyi say, “Wait.”

“Hmm?”

“Two more orders of chestnut pastries,” Wen Zhongyi said. “To-go.”

His tone was so casual that Meng Chuan was a little surprised. He curved his lips into a grin and pressed the bell to order ten more plates of chestnut pastries.

Wen Zhongyi nodded in approval. “You can go now.”

“Oh, right.” Meng Chuan had just taken two steps when he turned back. “Leave me your number—so we can stay in touch.”

Wen Zhongyi didn’t refuse. He took out his shabby old phone and added Meng Chuan’s number.

His contact list now had two names: Yang Jiaran, and Meng Chuan.

“I’m off.” Meng Chuan waved, and once he exited the elevator, he called his secretary.

“Mr. Meng,” the secretary answered respectfully. “How can I help?”

“Find someone for me.”

Walking through a cloud of cigarette smoke, Meng Chuan squinted slightly and said, “Name’s Wen Zhongyi.”

—

Two days later, Yang Jiaran showed up with two bags of skewers.

“What’s this?” he asked, first spotting the neatly stacked plastic containers on the table. Then he noticed they were all perfectly aligned with the top right corner of the table, not even a millimeter off. He stared. “You have OCD or something?”

“I don’t think so.” Wen Zhongyi handed him a pair of gloves. “Chestnut pastries. Try one.”

Yang Jiaran sat across from him and tried a bite, but didn’t take a second. “No flavor. Can’t beat skewers.”

“……”

Wen Zhongyi thought it was a shame someone so young had already lost the ability to appreciate good food. He didn’t argue, just gave him a look that clearly said: You’re hopeless.

The skewers were too greasy, so Wen Zhongyi didn’t eat any. He opened the window, and a late-autumn chill swept in. He took a deep breath, forcing down the nausea welling up inside.

It had been a month since he got pregnant, and he still hadn’t had a prenatal checkup.

Hospitals here required identification for exams, and he didn’t have any.

He also realized that in this world, only women could get pregnant. If anyone found out about his condition, it could cause unnecessary trouble.

“Got any tissues?” Yang Jiaran’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

Wen Zhongyi looked out the window and answered without turning, “In the drawer.”

Yang Jiaran pulled it open.

The old makeup table they’d repurposed was falling apart. With a loud creak, the leg wobbled, and he quickly reached out to steady the stack of plastic boxes, letting out a breath of relief.

“How long are you gonna stay in this dump?” Yang Jiaran muttered while grabbing a pack of tissues. “You should really go get your documents sorted. Quit squatting here. Just rent a proper place.”

As he spoke, his eyes landed on something else inside the drawer.

He paused, picked it up, and flipped through it—there were notes carefully written inside.

“Wen Zhongyi…” Yang Jiaran looked from the book to Wen Zhongyi, his expression filled with confusion and shock. “Why are you reading something like Pregnancy 101?”