POTINS 30

In the bathroom, Wen Zhongyi finished his shower and dried himself off unhurriedly.

He slipped on his robe and bent down to pull a hair dryer from the drawer below.

As he dried his hair, he looked at himself in the mirror. Aside from his hair being slightly longer, he didn’t look much different from before.

He never paid much attention to his appearance, couldn’t tell if he’d lost or gained weight—but there was one thing Wen Zhongyi saw clearly.

Beneath the open robe, his belly had already started to show a gentle curve.

There was only a week left until the baby reached three months. Wen Zhongyi lowered his gaze to his abdomen. The once well-defined abs had faded noticeably—nearly invisible now.

Though he still couldn’t feel the baby move, each time he rested his palm there, he could clearly sense the presence of a child tied to him by blood.

He recalled a line from one of the books he read, saying that as the pregnancy progressed, the emotional connection between mother and child would grow stronger.

Wen Zhongyi thought that made perfect sense. Every time he thought of the child in his belly, his heart would easily fill with joy.

He loved this child, just as his father and dad had loved him.

Even though they weren’t in the same time or space, that love could still be passed on.

Wen Zhongyi finished drying his hair, re-tied his robe, and [stolen content]was about to step out when his knee suddenly buckled and he stumbled.

With a loud clatter, the hair dryer fell to the floor.

Wen Zhongyi grabbed the sink for support, and before he could straighten up, Meng Chuan’s voice came from outside the bathroom.

“You okay? What just fell?” Meng Chuan knocked loudly on the bathroom door.

Wen Zhongyi rubbed his knee and slowly straightened up. “I’m fine. The hair dryer dropped.”

The bathroom door was frosted glass—enough to blur the inside, but a vague silhouette could still be seen.

Meng Chuan said, “If it dropped, leave it. I’ll come get it later.”

He was worried Wen Zhongyi might get dizzy if he bent down, and a fall would be serious trouble.

A few moments later, Wen Zhongyi opened the door and stepped out.

He carried with him the scent of body wash mingled with pheromones. The exposed skin was flushed from the steam, and his dark features looked even deeper and more striking.

Meng Chuan met his gaze—and couldn’t help holding his breath for a moment.

Wen Zhongyi frowned faintly. “The hair dryer’s still on the floor.”

“Oh,” Meng Chuan responded, walking in to pick it up and putting it back in the drawer.

In the living room, the TV was playing the weather forecast.

Starting tonight, the coming week would be all snow—heavy snowfall and plunging temperatures. The city was about to enter true winter.

For Wen Zhongyi, the snow season was always a long, painful torment.

His old knee injury made it impossible for him to enjoy snowy days. Though the pain wasn’t unbearable, he still tried to avoid going out in snow if he could.

And right on schedule—just like the forecast—his knee flared up again, reminding him that he’d be dealing with this pain all week.

“You don’t look so good,” Meng Chuan said, watching him carefully. “Are you feeling unwell?”

His ability to read people seemed to have improved a lot—he could even pick up on the discomfort between Wen Zhongyi’s brows.

Since Meng Chuan had asked, Wen Zhongyi told him, “My knee hurts.”

Meng Chuan froze for a moment, and then Wen Zhongyi explained lightly that his right knee had been injured on the battlefield.

More precisely, shrapnel from an explosion had left lasting damage.

Wen Zhongyi didn’t go into how fierce the battle had been. He just said, “There’s a hot water bottle in the second drawer of the nightstand. I need heat therapy before bed.”

“Got it, I’ll get it.” Meng Chuan stood up and helped him back [Read on]to the bedroom, then took the bottle to fill it with hot water.

As the steaming water flowed into the bottle, Meng Chuan kept his eyes fixed on it. Then, suddenly—his hand stung.

“Shit—” he hissed as he snapped out of it, shaking his scalded left hand.

Wen Zhongyi was lying flat on the bed, already changed into his pajamas.

One arm was draped over his eyes to block the bright light. When he heard the door open, he lifted his eyelids and saw Meng Chuan walk in with the hot water bottle.

Maybe it was because the walk had worn him out, but Wen Zhongyi felt sleepy earlier than usual tonight. When Meng Chuan spoke to him, he only responded with a few lazy nasal sounds.

“I’ll have a traditional doctor come over tomorrow to take a look at your knee,” Meng Chuan said.

Meng Chuan had said something similar back in Sanka. Wen Zhongyi gave a soft “mm” and slowly closed his eyes.

When the hot water bag first touched his skin, Wen Zhongyi reflexively flinched. Meng Chuan immediately picked it up and asked, “Is it too hot?”

Wen Zhongyi gave a slight shake of his head. “It’s fine.”

Meng Chuan gently massaged his knee, where a few shallow, pale scars marked the skin. They didn’t look severe, and it was hard to imagine how they had come about.

After a while, Meng Chuan placed the hot water bag lightly back on his knee.

Wen Zhongyi seemed to have fallen asleep, his breathing long and even, completely still.

Meng Chuan watched him for a moment, then stood up and turned off the bedroom’s overhead light. The room immediately fell into darkness.

Once his eyes adjusted to the night, Meng Chuan quietly walked to the bedside, crouched down, and flipped the water bag over on Wen Zhongyi’s knee. While continuing the heat therapy, he gently massaged Wen Zhongyi’s calf.

A thin beam of moonlight slipped through the gap in the curtains, casting a soft glow over Wen Zhongyi’s face.

He seemed to be a little warm, lifting the blanket in his sleep to turn over, but his knee couldn’t lift. Somewhere deep in his subconscious, it was as if he remembered he was doing heat therapy, and he slowly relaxed again.

In that motion, the hem of his pajamas shifted up a bit, revealing a small patch of skin at his waist.

Meng Chuan’s gaze was drawn to it, and he stared for a moment without a word. Suddenly, a thought struck him, and his Adam’s apple bobbed subtly.

“Wen Zhongyi?” Meng Chuan called his name in a whisper, uncertain.

Wen Zhongyi didn’t respond at all.

After waiting for half a minute, Meng Chuan was sure he was truly asleep.

So he no longer hesitated. He moved closer quietly and gently lifted the hem of Wen Zhongyi’s pajamas, exposing his slightly rounded lower belly.

Ever since learning Wen Zhongyi was pregnant, Meng Chuan had wanted to do this, but had never dared to bring it up.

Now that Wen Zhongyi was asleep, he finally had the chance.

Holding his breath, he reached out, placing his palm slowly and carefully against that spot.

The skin beneath was soft and warm. Meng Chuan’s heart began to race.

At three months, the baby couldn’t move yet, but Meng Chuan wasn’t sure if his hand was trembling from nerves—still, in that fleeting moment, he felt as if he sensed the presence of a life.

Inside was their child—his and Wen Zhongyi’s.

For an instant, a strange and indescribable feeling surged in his chest. Meng Chuan slowed his breathing, overcome by a sudden urge to cry.

These past few weeks, his attention had been more on Wen Zhongyi himself. He hadn’t fantasized about becoming a father like other men might.

He only knew Wen Zhongyi was carrying his child, that Wen Zhongyi was enduring hardship for it—but as for the child itself, he hadn’t thought much.

Yet now, he didn’t know if it was instinct or genuine emotion, but he truly felt the wonder and joy of becoming a father. Maybe it was both.

The memory-less Meng Chuan gently stroked Wen Zhongyi’s belly and made the same wish Wen Zhongyi once had: that their child would be born safely, and grow up healthy and happy.

Suddenly, Wen Zhongyi stirred slightly in his sleep.

Meng Chuan thought he was waking up and quickly withdrew his hand, watching him in the darkness.

But Wen Zhongyi only shifted his head slightly and didn’t move again, his breathing stolen contentstill calm and steady.

Meng Chuan looked at the exposed belly, hesitated for two seconds, then refrained from touching it again. He picked up the hem of the pajamas and gently lowered it, then covered Wen Zhongyi with the blanket.

Not long after, the door lock clicked softly.

Meng Chuan had left.

On the bed, Wen Zhongyi slowly opened his eyes.

He hadn’t been fully asleep—he’d woken up the moment Meng Chuan lifted his pajama hem.

Wen Zhongyi had guessed what Meng Chuan was trying to do, but he hadn’t moved or stopped him.

The darkness had done well to hide his expression, and Meng Chuan hadn’t noticed the subtle quiver of his eyelashes or the way his breath slowed for a brief moment.

If you asked Wen Zhongyi now how much he had come to accept Meng Chuan’s memory loss, his answer would be: 81%.

That cautious, lingering touch from Meng Chuan as he reached for his belly had once again softened his heart, and helplessly shaved off another 1%.

Wen Zhongyi rolled over under the covers, placing his hand on the same spot Meng Chuan had just touched, and closed his eyes again, firmly thinking: no more than 81%—never more.

That night, a heavy snow fell, quietly blanketing the whole world.

When Wen Zhongyi woke, the sky was still dark, and the room dim.

He curled his aching knee under the blanket and sighed helplessly.

Meng Chuan had planned to bring a traditional Chinese medicine doctor for Wen Zhongyi’s knee, but after asking around, he learned that acupuncture during pregnancy could cause miscarriage.

There was nothing else that could be done—just warm compresses and calcium supplements.

Suddenly, Meng Chuan remembered the day he had his rut and Wen Zhongyi came to see him in the snow.

The snow that day had been even heavier, the cold bone-piercing. Back then, he hadn’t known Wen Zhongyi was pregnant, or that his knee was injured.

He couldn’t imagine how Wen Zhongyi had endured the discomfort and what kind of feelings he’d had as he stood outside his house—and how hard it must’ve been when he turned and left.

Meng Chuan closed his eyes. After a long time, he exhaled deeply.

All the things Wen Zhongyi had never said out loud had boomeranged back, piercing Meng Chuan’s heart so sharply he could barely breathe.

The snow continued for three days and nights. Looking out the window, there was hardly any color left in the world beyond white.

Wen Zhongyi had taken leave from the bookstore and stayed home the whole time.

Meng Chuan bought him an electric salt bag for his knee, covered it with a thick wool blanket, and both his legs stayed warm. The discomfort eased a lot.

Meng Chuan had to leave for work. Before heading out, he stood by the door, fretting and fussing: “Don’t leave [visit our site]that salt bag on too long. If you’re going to nap, unplug it. It stays warm for a while, but if it short-circuits, it’s dangerous. I washed all the fruit and brought over snacks. If anything comes up, call me right away, got it?”

“Got it, got it.”

Wen Zhongyi, curled up in the recliner, waved a hand at him with his back turned. “Just go already—you nag too much.”