Chapter 218: Cohabitation

**Chapter 218: Living Together**

When Wen Xian rushed out the door with an umbrella, he startled his mother. Zhang Xiaoping sat up on the sofa and turned to look at him. "Honey, it's pouring outside—what are you doing going out in the middle of the night?"

Wen Xian spoke quickly as he rummaged through the emergency kit for a flashlight, putting on his shoes at the same time. "My classmate—the academic ace who’s been tutoring me—his place is flooded. I’m going to help. I won’t be back tonight. I’ll stay with him at the school apartment."

The apartment near Foreign Language School had been a gift from Zhang Xiaoping for her son’s coming of age. It was already fully furnished and stocked with daily necessities, ready to move in at any time.

Zhang Xiaoping was taken aback. "Why should you be the one to help? Where are his parents? There’s police and neighborhood services. And why stay with him? Can’t he just book a hotel room?"

Though she was grateful that this classmate had been tutoring her son, it didn’t make sense for the boy’s whole family to stay at their place.

She stood up. "Wait, ‘Xiao Er,’ it’s pitch-dark outside. Even if you’re moving things, you can’t possibly manage alone. What exactly can you help with?"

Wen Xian paused. "...He doesn't have any parents."

Shen Zhao had no parents and couldn’t afford a hotel. He lived alone in a run-down old house, bare and empty, with nothing worth moving. All his worldly possessions could be carried in two hands.

Wen Xian remembered this flood. The water in Shen Zhao’s neighborhood would rise no more than a meter. The flooding had caused widespread power outages across the city. If Wen Xian didn’t step in, Shen Zhao would be left alone in that tiny room, listening to the thunderstorm outside, watching in the dark as the water slowly climbed—first over the bed, then the table—before receding, leaving behind a layer of grime.

Zhang Xiaoping paused. "Oh... Then be careful. I’ll call Wu and offer him extra pay to see if he can help you."

Wen Xian nodded. "Yeah, okay."

He grabbed his bag and left.

The rain was heavier than expected. Taxis were charging extra fares, and countless cars were stranded on the city’s overpasses. Pedestrians who hadn’t made it home yet walked through the heavy rain, their umbrellas turned inside out by the wind. The howling gusts, pounding rain, blaring horns, and angry shouts merged into a deafening noise.

Wen Xian pulled out his phone. "Just stay home for now. I'm on my way."

Shen Zhao replied, "Okay."

What should have been a twenty-minute drive dragged on for forty minutes. By the time Wen Xian got out at the intersection, the water had already risen past his calves.

He remembered that the threshold of Shen Zhao’s house only reached ankle height.

The entire old district was completely dark. Wen Xian turned on his flashlight and splashed through the flooded streets until he reached Shen Zhao’s door.

It wasn’t locked—Shen Zhao had left it open for him, just like before.

Wen Xian pushed the door open.

The old hinges let out a piercing creak. In the bright beam of the flashlight, Wen Xian took in the scene inside.

The floodwater had risen to the bed frame, mucky and brown, leaving a distinct waterline on the walls. The air reeked of damp earth, the water carrying rotten leaves and dead insects.

The quilt had been rolled up and placed atop the wardrobe. The altar table had nowhere else to go and was propped on the bed. Meanwhile, Shen Zhao sat curled up on the desk, hugging his knees. The desktop was less than twenty centimeters above the water.

It was a tiny school desk, barely enough for Shen Zhao to sit on one side with his backpack taking up the rest.

His mother’s photo was clutched to his chest, his other hand gripping his phone.

From a few meters away, Wen Xian could just make out what was on the screen.

*"Just stay home for now. I'm on my way."*

It was the text he had sent.

For the entire forty minutes Wen Xian had been traveling, Shen Zhao had sat there alone, rereading that same message over and over.

"......"

Wen Xian couldn’t help but wonder—since he had come in this life, what about the times he hadn’t?

How had Shen Zhao from a past life spent that night?

The water would only rise a meter before receding. Wen Xian knew this, but Shen Zhao back then hadn’t.

Had he sat on that table too, clutching the black-and-white photo in his arms, in the blackout, with thunder booming, the relentless flood rising, unsure when the rain would stop, and gripped by the dread of watching the last dry spot vanish?

He didn’t have Wen Xian’s number. No one would text him, no one would come for him. His only family was long gone, leaving only the photo in his hands. His world was hollow, with no one to turn to for help.

If Wen Xian hadn’t come, where would he have slept tonight? How would he have dealt with the aftermath of the flood? Would the soaked palm-fiber bed even be usable?

Wen Xian bit the tip of his tongue, tasting a bitter tang.

Hearing the door open, Shen Zhao lifted his gaze toward him, his eyes catching tiny glints of flashlight.

He edged toward the door, like he wanted to grab hold of him, but withdrew his hand when the distance proved too great. "Wen Xian."

"...Wen Xian."

He called his name twice.

"I'm here."

The wind made umbrellas useless. Rain had soaked Wen Xian’s black hair, droplets rolling down the bridge of his nose.

He swept the flashlight around. "You can’t stay here tonight. Come on, pack the essentials. I’ll take you somewhere else until the flood recedes."

Shen Zhao gave a quiet "Mm."

But he hardly had anything to begin with. The quilt couldn’t be taken, and the clothes in the wardrobe were already soaked. The rest had turned damp and limp. Shen Zhao picked through, only finding two clean items.

Then he placed the photo in his backpack and slung it over his shoulder—this was all he owned.

Wen Xian felt his way to the door and stepped over the threshold. The alley between buildings had a rushing current, requiring careful footing. Uncle Wu texted that he’d arrived at the alley entrance.

Wen Xian reached back with his hand. "Stay close to me."

Having sat alone in the damp, chilly room for so long, Shen Zhao was ice-cold—colder even than rain-soaked Wen Xian. When their hands clasped, Shen Zhao’s fingers trembled slightly, but Wen Xian paid no mind, tightening his grip firmly. "The current’s fierce. Holding on keeps us steady."

Shen Zhao glanced down at their joined hands and murmured softly, "Mm."

They picked their way down the narrow path to the fork, where Uncle Wu was already waiting. He opened the trunk and tossed in Shen Zhao’s pitifully few things, then ushered them into the car.

As the doors locked and the soundproof windows rolled up, the rain sounds muffled.

The car’s heater was cranked to the max, slowly warming their numb limbs. The vehicle shielded them from both the rain and the cold. Shen Zhao gazed through the window at the storm outside—bean-sized raindrops struck the glass and slid down, as if carving out a warm refuge within the frigid world.

And he was inside that refuge.

Both Shen Zhao and Wen Xian’s pant legs dripped water, leaving streaks of yellow mud on the seats. Wen Xian’s hair was still dripping as he leaned over to dig around in the back for something to wipe his face and hair.

"Huh, where are my clothes?"

His shirt rode up with the movement, revealing a slim waist, his skin warm ivory—smooth and healthy.

Shen Zhao looked away, hiding his eyes.

Wen Xian didn’t feel the slightest bit awkward—returning to the car felt like returning to his own territory. He sprawled lazily across the seat, his wet clothes clinging to his abdominal muscles, clearly outlining them. From Shen Zhao’s angle, he could even see two well-defined V-cut muscles: “Wu, have you seen my clothes?”

He intended to use his jacket to wipe his face and hair.

Wu: “Hey, isn’t today Friday? I took them upstairs to your mom when I dropped you off earlier. There’s no clothes in the car.”

Wen Xian had no choice but to sit up properly: “Alright then.”

Just then, Shen Zhao unzipped his backpack and handed over a clean shirt. He avoided looking at Wen Xian too much, simply maintaining the gesture of offering it: “Here, take mine.”

Wen Xian hesitated for a moment, instinctively accepting it. The shirt had clearly been washed many times, the fabric softened from repeated washing, neatly folded.

But a shirt wasn’t like a jacket—it was worn next to the skin.

Wen Xian felt slightly awkward, finding everything about the situation strange. Yet, not wanting to reject Shen Zhao’s kindness, he merely used the shirt to dab at the ends of his hair: “Oh, okay, thanks.”

Wen Xian’s clothes were machine-washed, while Shen Zhao’s were hand-washed with soap—the old-fashioned medicinal kind bought from the supermarket for two yuan a bar. It had a faintly sweet yet bitter scent. When Wen Xian wiped his face with the shirt, the smell overwhelmed his senses, strikingly similar to the person beside him, making him uneasy.

So he hastily dried his hair and returned the shirt to Shen Zhao, who also quickly wiped the water from his head before clutching his backpack and suddenly sneezing.

Wen Xian turned to him: “Be careful. Take some medicine when we get back—don’t catch a cold.”

Only then did Shen Zhao ask: “Where are we going now?”

“To my place. Uh, don’t worry, not with my parents,” Wen Xian added, noticing Shen Zhao’s sudden stiffness. “My family owns more than one apartment. There’s one right by the Foreign Language School. Since you can’t go home for now, we’ll stay there these couple of days.”

After the flood receded, the whole place would need disinfecting, and clothes and bedding would have to be washed and dried—a huge task.

Shen Zhao repeated: “We?”

Wen Xian: “We. It’s the middle of the night—no point making Wu drive me again. Plus, staying together means you can supervise my studies. We can go over yesterday’s test.”

This time, Wen Xian scored 65—still terrible, but a huge improvement.

For a total newbie to studying, improving scores wasn’t hard—much easier than for a top student. He just needed to master the most basic standard problem types. Especially since Wen Xian wasn’t stupid—he’d just forgotten after ten years of not writing and had been too lazy to learn before. Once he picked it up again and learned the basic patterns, his scores would rise quickly.

Shen Zhao naturally agreed.

Yet that weekend, Wen Xian still didn’t get to review the test.

He had plenty of energy, but unfortunately, in both lifetimes, Shen Zhao was sickly and delicate—a slight breeze could give him a cold. That very night, he grew groggy and started spiking a fever.

Wen Xian’s apartment had multiple bathrooms. They showered separately, and Wen Xian came out first, sitting on the sofa looking through his notes while listening to the sound of running water next door. Then came a loud *thud*, like something heavy hitting the floor.

Wen Xian didn’t dare rush in—he didn’t know if Shen Zhao was dressed—so he just knocked on the door: “What happened?”

“Nothing,” came Shen Zhao’s voice through the frosted glass. “I accidentally dropped your shampoo bottle.”

Wen Xian let out a relieved sigh: “Don’t worry about it.”

When Shen Zhao finally emerged from the bathroom, Wen Xian pointed him to the medicine shelf, telling him to take something to prevent a cold. But when Shen Zhao bumped into the shelf, Wen Xian finally realized something was wrong.

He stood up, muttering, “What’s your problem with this place?” before reaching out to touch Shen Zhao’s forehead—then gasping.

You’re burning up.

Wen Xian gave his shoulder a gentle push: “Go lie down now. Don’t take that medicine—I’ll brew some fever medicine for you.”

And so, Wen Xian helped Shen Zhao upstairs.

In someone else's home, Shen Zhao seemed a bit uneasy and restrained, but Wen Xian wasn't being formal with him. He pushed him onto the bed, pulled the blanket from the foot of the bed, and bundled him up.

It was a very soft bed.

The bed Shen Zhao had been soaked on was a stiff palm mattress with only a thin layer of cotton padding—hard and scratchy. Wen Xian’s bed, however, had three layers of padding inside and out, and the Simmons mattress’s sponge hugged him snugly. The moment Shen Zhao lay down, he sank right in.

He thought, *Man, this is comfy.*

Once Wen Xian had settled Shen Zhao, he got up and went downstairs. He rummaged through the medicine cabinet for fever meds and powdered mix, then brought up a cup of hot water, placing everything by Shen Zhao’s bedside.

Yet the moment he pushed the door open, he quieted his steps.

Shen Zhao was already asleep.

Perhaps it was the scare from earlier, or perhaps the room’s temperature was just right, or maybe the bed was simply too soft—Shen Zhao’s breathing was steady and even, and he had fallen asleep without even turning off the light.

Wen Xian hesitated for a moment before reaching out to touch his hand, intending to wake him. "Hey, don’t sleep yet. Take the medicine first—it’ll help you recover faster."

In his sleep, Shen Zhao furrowed his brows slightly but showed no sign of waking. Instead, in his dazed state, his fingers brushed against Wen Xian’s hand and lightly curled around it.