POTINS 7

After an autumn rain, the air turned noticeably chillier.

Wen Zhongyi had just recovered from a cold. Wrapped in a cheap overcoat from the wholesale market, half his face was hidden by the high collar of his sweater. The rough fabric had rubbed his skin red.

The university campus here was much larger than he’d imagined.

Back in Sanka, he had attended a military academy. There were no ornamental rocks or lakes there—only dust-choked training grounds.

He hadn’t walked far when the end-of-class bell rang, and waves of students poured out of the academic buildings. The once-spacious road quickly became crowded, with bicycles and e-scooters weaving past him.

Wen Zhongyi stepped closer to the inside edge of the sidewalk, one hand tucked in his coat pocket, instinctively shielding his lower abdomen.

Last night, Yang Jiaran had called, complaining that he had the bad luck of being selected to attend some entrepreneur lecture—which happened to be at the same time as a stage play he’d long been looking forward to.

It was a rare touring performance in this city, and Yang Jiaran didn’t want to miss it.

But attendance at the lecture required check-in, so he had no choice but to ask Wen Zhongyi for help.

“I wanted to ask my roommate, but they’re all busy. Can you help me out?” Yang Jiaran had pleaded over the phone. “I’ll lend you my student ID card, and I swear I’ll treat you to a feast when I’m back, okay?”

He’d done so much for Wen Zhongyi already—of course Wen Zhongyi wouldn’t say no. He chuckled and said, “Sure, just send me the location.”

So that morning, Wen Zhongyi used Yang Jiaran’s ID to enter the campus and followed the signs to the auditorium.

A large promotional board stood at the entrance, introducing the guest speaker for the lecture.

Wen Zhongyi glanced over it and saw Meng Chuan’s photo and name.

The description was brief—he read it quickly.

Turns out Meng Chuan had once been a student at this university, and with the school’s 70th anniversary approaching, they’d invited back some of their most distinguished alumni.

After reading it, Wen Zhongyi walked into the hall a little quicker.

There were many students filing in, but judging from their expressions, Wen Zhongyi guessed that few had come willingly. Most, like Yang Jiaran, were likely pressured by GPA requirements or attendance points.

He checked in at a machine and took a random seat.

The low chatter died down as a sharply dressed Meng Chuan took the stage, surrounded by university officials.

There was a row of tables on the platform. Meng Chuan gave a polite bow before taking the center seat.

Applause rang out for a while. Initially uninterested, the students were quickly wide-eyed with surprise—the CEO of a major conglomerate was this young and this handsome?

Amidst the murmurs came snippets of gossip—

“Wait, none of you watch the local news? I thought everyone knew how good-looking he is.”

“I thought that promo photo was edited.”

“His life is kinda wild though—he used to be in the military, then took over the family business, disappeared for four years after a car crash, and just came back last month.”

“Holy crap, sounds like a suspense movie.”

…

The buzz faded, and the bright stage lights lit up Meng Chuan’s refined figure. He sat tall, his charming smile radiating confidence, his familiar voice amplified through the mic.

Wen Zhongyi was seated a bit toward the back and couldn’t clearly see his face, but there was a small speaker directly above him, so Meng Chuan’s voice sounded close.

Most lectures like this would be filled with motivational clichés or nostalgic memories of school, but Meng Chuan didn’t follow the usual script. He didn’t even glance at his prepared notes, and with one hand on the mic, he vividly recounted his days of skipping class and getting into fights—leaving the university officials onstage visibly grim-faced.

“Uh… cough… Mr. Meng,” a staff member next to him had to cut in, twitching at the corners of his mouth. “Perhaps share something more positive to set a good example for the students?”

Meng Chuan nodded agreeably. “Sure.”

Then immediately began reciting the script in a completely lifeless tone.

Wen Zhongyi smiled.

It was obvious Meng Chuan hadn’t written the speech—too polished, too literary. The man simply didn’t have that much flowery vocabulary in him.

The lecture lasted an hour and a half. When it was finally over and Wen Zhongyi stood up, he felt briefly faint.

He steadied himself against the back of the chair, and by the time he looked up again—Meng Chuan was already gone.

It was lunchtime, so Wen Zhongyi followed the crowd to the cafeteria and bought a bowl of vegetable noodles.

For once, he didn’t feel nauseous, and ate comfortably. The cafeteria TV was playing a drama—he glanced at it, got hooked, and ended up watching the whole episode.

By the time it finished, most students had already left.

He bought a cup of hot milk and sipped it while waiting for the elevator.

Before long, the doors slid open, revealing four or five people inside, coming down from the fifth floor. That floor had private rooms typically used for hosting visiting guests.

Meng Chuan stood in the middle, hands in his pockets, eyebrows slightly raised.

Also inside were school administrators. To avoid unnecessary interaction, Wen Zhongyi feigned ignorance, calmly turned his face away, and stared at the blinking floor numbers on the screen above.

Meng Chuan seemed to see through his act but said nothing, simply chuckling behind him with unclear intent.

After exiting the cafeteria, the school leaders were still chatting with Meng Chuan.

“President Wang,” Meng Chuan said, his eyes on the retreating figure ahead, “no need to walk me further. My car’s just up front.”

Wen Zhongyi wasn’t walking fast. Head down, one hand held his milk, the other typed a message to Yang Jiaran.

—Just finished the lecture. When should I return your student ID?

Just as he hit send, someone tapped his shoulder.

“Hello again,” Meng Chuan said, catching up to him and leaning in to peek at his screen. “So that’s why you’re here—filling in for someone at the lecture.”

Wen Zhongyi had already noticed the footsteps behind him. He turned off his phone and stuffed it into his coat pocket, replying coolly, “No one ever told you eavesdropping is rude?”

“I wasn’t eavesdropping. I was openly looking.” Meng Chuan said matter-of-factly.

Wen Zhongyi couldn’t be bothered to argue. He took a small sip of milk and pursed his lips.

Meng Chuan looked down at him, his gaze drifting from Wen’s lashes to his nose to his lips. He had to admit, the man was striking. And once again, he caught that familiar rose scent clinging to Wen Zhongyi—it pulled him in instinctively.

“Stop crowding me.” On the third time Meng Chuan’s elbow bumped his, Wen Zhongyi finally snapped and shot him a glare. “There’s plenty of space—why are you walking so close?”

“…” Meng Chuan forced himself to keep a straight face and put some distance between them. After a moment, he said, “Your cologne smells nice.”

It was sincere, but as soon as he said it, he regretted it—it sounded too much like a clumsy pickup line.

Fortunately, Wen Zhongyi didn’t react.

He tossed the empty milk bottle into a trash bin, shoved both hands into his pockets, and asked, “Did you drive?”

Meng Chuan blinked. “Yeah.”

Wen Zhongyi nodded. “Take me home.”

“…”

Meng Chuan was thrown by how naturally he gave the order. He paused for two seconds, incredulous. “Wait, you…”

He was about to say, “Who are you to order me around?” but swallowed it and rephrased, “Am I your chauffeur or something?”

Wen Zhongyi met his gaze, thought for a moment, and adjusted his tone: “Would you mind giving me a ride home?”

“Heh.” Meng Chuan let out a humorless laugh.

“So is that a no?” Wen Zhongyi asked.

The tip of his nose was red from the cold, and those dark eyes fixed on Meng Chuan. The fleeting look of disappointment made Meng Chuan’s heart clench unexpectedly. He swallowed the “no” and sighed, defeated. “…Fine.”

Once in the car, Wen Zhongyi pulled his hands from his pockets and rolled down the window.

Meng Chuan frowned. “Isn’t it cold?”

“There’s a smoke smell.”

First the guy ordered him to drive, and now he was complaining about the smell. Meng Chuan clicked his tongue in irritation and forced a smile. “Any other orders, sir?”

When the smoke finally cleared, Wen Zhongyi rolled the window up and leaned back against the seat. His hands folded over his abdomen. After a moment, he said, “Turn up the heat.”

Meng Chuan silently rolled his eyes but obediently adjusted the temperature, then shot him a sideways glance.

Wen Zhongyi’s profile was pale and lean, lips set in a straight line. Despite his cheap, street-stall outfit, he exuded a cool, noble air—like someone used to being served.

What a performer, Meng Chuan sneered inwardly.

The car crawled through heavy traffic, then turned onto a broader side road as the GPS directed.

The wider road gave Meng Chuan an excuse to hit the gas. With a roar, the car surged forward.

Barely two seconds later, his picky “boss” spoke again. “Slow down.”

Meng Chuan scoffed and ignored him. “This road’s wide—gotta keep speed or we’ll get overtaken.”

He floored the gas harder, and the car nearly flew.

“Stop the car,” Wen Zhongyi said abruptly.

“Nope,” Meng Chuan replied without looking over.

Wen Zhongyi drew in a sharp breath. “Stop. The. Car.”

“I’m not stopping. Nope, nope, nope,” Meng Chuan said, grinning like a child refusing to listen.

Wen Zhongyi frowned, and the wave of nausea rising in his throat became unbearable. Gritting his teeth, he barked, “I said STOP!”

Meng Chuan burst out, “You know, you don’t have to be so—”

The rest of his sentence died in his throat the moment he saw Wen Zhongyi’s pale face and the way he was clenching his mouth shut.

Meng Chuan panicked. “Hey, hey, don’t throw up in my car!”

The speeding car braked hard, nearly getting rear-ended by the taxi behind them, which laid on the horn.

Meng Chuan flicked on the turn signal and rolled down the window, catching the sight of cold sweat beading on Wen Zhongyi’s temple. Alarmed, he said, “Hang on—hang on—don’t throw up yet! I’m pulling over!”

Wen Zhongyi clutched his mouth, face ashen. The moment the car stopped, he snatched the plastic bag Meng Chuan handed over, jumped out, and knelt by the roadside, retching violently.

“Damn,” Meng Chuan muttered, walking over to check on him. Seeing just how awful he looked, he sighed and went back to the car to grab a bottle of mineral water. Turning his face aside, he handed it over while muttering, “You could’ve told me you get carsick. All that yelling—I thought you were just being a pain… Alright, alright, I’ll shut up. Rinse your mouth. I’ll go find you some tissues.”