Chapter 219: Exam

Chapter 219: The Test

When his hand was grasped, the searing heat transferring over made Wen Xian pause.

He had never seen Shen Zhao like this before.

The one at home was cold, rigid, stiffening at the slightest closeness, tensing up and instinctively bracing defensively—just as awkward in bed, stiff as a dead fish.

Wen Xian had always assumed he either hated his guts or loathed their marriage. Otherwise, why would he get goosebumps at the slightest touch, as if allergic to Wen Xian? Sex never felt like enjoyment for him—it was more like an ordeal.

Wen Xian preferred willing partners—love should be something both enjoyed. Yet Shen Zhao acted like it was assault.

But theirs was just a political marriage, a union for show where they each did their own thing afterward. Wen Xian couldn’t care less.

Yet Shen Zhao insisted on having sex with him, like checking off a task. At times, Wen Xian wondered if he were a robot following a script for a "perfect marriage," as though only then would his life feel complete.

But the Shen Zhao before him now was nothing like that.

Feverish and asleep in front of Wen Xian, face half-buried in the pillow, one arm clinging to him—utterly trusting, dependent. Wen Xian could have shaken him off easily with a little force, but he hesitated, then chose not to move.

Half-asleep, Shen Zhao seemed to catch the scent of medicine and struggled to wake. In his daze, he noticed their intertwined hands and jerked away like he’d been burned.

Wen Xian put the medicine bowl on the bedside table. “You’re awake. You have a fever—drink this first.”

Shen Zhao: “Mm.”

Propping himself up against the headboard, the white porcelain spoon clinked softly against the bowl. He kept his head down, quietly drinking the medicine. Just as Wen Xian was about to leave, he hurriedly called out, “Um—Wen Xian!”

Wen Xian turned back. Shen Zhao’s voice dropped even lower. “Thank you… today.”

Wen Xian chuckled. “Alright, I’ll take your thanks. In return, get better soon and help me ace that exam. My credit card depends on you.”

He switched off the light, shut the door gently, and went to sleep in the next room.

With the living room dark, the whole house fell silent. Wen Xian lay on his back, scrolling idly through his phone, feeling oddly amused.

The master bedroom and guest room faced each other across a shared wall—meaning Shen Zhao was right on the other side. When all was quiet, Wen Xian could almost hear his breathing.

He powered off his phone and drifted into deep sleep.

The next morning, Wen Xian went downstairs and bought soy milk, steamed buns, and youtiao for breakfast—only to find Shen Zhao already up.

The patient wore the housekeeper’s apron, cooking noodles in the kitchen. Both stopped dead upon seeing each other.

Wen Xian: “Did your fever break?”

Shen Zhao pointed upstairs while saying, “Your door was cracked open—I thought you weren’t up yet.”

“So you came down to make breakfast first?” Wen Xian shook his head slightly, placing the buns on the table. “Come on, since when do guests cook? You’re still sick—should you even be up? Is your fever gone?”

Shen Zhao turned to ladle the noodles. “Yeah, it’s gone.”

“Really?” Wen Xian eyed him skeptically, reaching out to touch Shen Zhao’s forehead. “Let me check?”

Shen Zhao instinctively leaned back, trying to avoid it. “It’s fine.”

But Wen Xian was faster. He firmly pressed his palm against Shen Zhao’s forehead, holding it there a moment before declaring, “I don’t think it’s gone—you’re still burning up. And look in the mirror—your ears are still red.”

He grabbed the spatula from Shen Zhao’s hand. “I think you need another day or two in bed.”

Shen Zhao brooded for a moment before snatching it back: "Really, I'm fine."

Wen Xian grabbed it again: "Quit messing around. Listen to me—go drink the congee first."

He placed the spatula back in the sink, wrapped an arm around Shen Zhao's back, and steered him out by the shoulders: "Don't stay here. If my mom finds out I let a guest cook, she’d skin me alive."

Shen Zhao hesitated: "Lunch..."

There were only the two of them at home, and Wen Xian’s cooking was downright terrible.

Wen Xian: "My mom called me this morning. She’s sending someone over soon."

Mrs. Zhang had called Wen Xian early the next morning, saying she’d send Auntie Wang over to keep Young Master Wen from starving to death.

Auntie Wang was the cook hired by Mrs. Zhang, skilled in Cantonese cuisine, known for its bright, aromatic, and delicate flavors.

Wen Xian instinctively refused at first: "It’s fine, no need for Auntie Wang to come. Shen Zhao and I are studying."

Something about having a third person around irked Wen Xian.

Mrs. Zhang snorted: "Then what does the young master plan to eat? Will you and that academic ace live on air? Feed him your burnt eggs? Or are you planning to have the academic ace cook for you?"

Wen Xian: "..."

With takeout not really a thing back then, Wen Xian couldn’t cook, and Shen Zhao was in no shape to do it. After a brief consideration, Wen Xian agreed.

But sure enough, for that first meal, Shen Zhao ended up cooking anyway.

Not long after they finished breakfast, Auntie Wang arrived. Humming to herself, she prepared lunch in the kitchen while Wen Xian and Shen Zhao worked on problems in the study.

The rain in Nan City continued, blanketing the city in fog. Light rain tapped against the glass, splashing onto the windowsill, making a soft, steady hum. The room was comfortably warm. Midway through solving a problem, Shen Zhao suddenly looked up and out the window.

The temperature inside was slightly high, steaming up the window. Shen Zhao reached out and pressed his fingers against the glass.

Through the pane, he could feel the cold seeping through. He wiped it lightly, sketching a smiley face, and through the cleared space, he glimpsed the scene outside.

Wen Xian’s house was situated on higher ground, but it hadn’t escaped the flood. Floodwater had seeped into the shops below, their doors now shut tight. People hurried along the streets, everyone looking like they’d been through the wringer.

And the state of his own home yesterday had been even worse than theirs.

For some reason, Shen Zhao suddenly turned to look at Wen Xian. Classmate Wen was gnawing on his knuckles as he struggled with math problems, his brows furrowed in frustration. Yet even so, his face remained ridiculously good-looking, the curve of his profile like something out of a painting, every rise and fall perfectly proportioned.

Wen Xian: "?"

Feeling eyes on him, he looked up and met Shen Zhao’s gaze. The moment their eyes locked, Shen Zhao averted his eyes to the window, like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

Wen Xian twirled his pen, noticing the smiley face on the glass. He found it weirder by the second—was Shen Zhao, with his short fuse, really the type to doodle smiley faces in his youth? Raising an eyebrow, he said, "...Classmate Jiang, are you a little too free? If you’ve got time, do a few more problems. The joint exam is coming up—don’t you want to get into Foreign Languages?"

Shen Zhao wiped the smiley face away: "I’m about 80% sure. Compared to that, your 100 is much more precarious."

Wen Xian: "."

Shen Zhao never spoke in absolutes. If he said 80%, it meant 99% certainty. In contrast, Wen Xian’s 100 was on shaky ground.

Wen Xian lowered his head and silently returned to his problems.

At one point, Auntie Wang brought in two plates of fruit, one for Shen Zhao and one for Wen Xian.

Shen Zhao remained reserved around strangers, while Wen Xian took his casually. Auntie Wang studied their faces for a long moment before she finally left the study.

As it turned out, while Wen was in the bathroom, he overheard Aunt Wang speaking in a hushed tone on the phone.

"Ah, Madam, yes, I saw him—very well-behaved and refined, a boy. Their behavior is completely normal, yes, doing homework. Doesn’t seem like there’s any improper relationship. I cleaned the rooms—they’re sleeping separately, not together. Ah, don’t worry, they’re really just studying."

"I saw their test papers. That boy’s grades are excellent—the ones on the desk are all 140s. Wen isn’t bad either—he scored 60..."

"Yes, a whole 60! That shows he’s putting in effort. Having a top student to guide him really makes a difference..."

Wen’s face darkened.

Ever since he buckled down to study, his math scores had steadily improved, stabilizing at 60. On easier tests, he could even hit 70. Still not as good as in his past life, but much better than when he first reincarnated.

The rain stopped by the evening of the first day. Thanks to the drainage system in South City, the floodwaters completely receded by the afternoon of the second day.

Street sweepers blasted the roads with high-pressure hoses, shop owners began clearing out the mud from their stores, and people gradually returned to their normal lives as the city sprang back to life.

At dusk, Wen accompanied Shen back to his home.

Though the flood had subsided, it left behind deep traces. The ground was caked in sludge—an inch thick—and even the bed wasn’t spared. No amount of sweeping would fix it. The walls were stained a muddy yellow from the dirty water, the plaster peeling off in damp, patchy layers.

The clothes in the lower part of the wardrobe were ruined and had to be thrown away. The books Shen had piled in the corner had warped into shapeless, soggy waste.

Wen crouched down and touched them. "You don’t need these anymore, right?"

Shen: "It’s fine. They’re from my first and second year. The ones I need, I took with me."

Wen sighed in relief.

He threw an arm around Shen’s shoulders again, just as he had when pushing him out of the kitchen that morning. "This place isn’t livable anymore. Just come home with me."

Seeing Shen still hesitating, Wen added, "Alright, Oh Great Scholar Jiang, consider the rent and your tutoring fees canceled out."

He lingered on the words, dripping with sarcasm, making Shen’s ears turn red before he was practically dragged back into the car.

For the next half-month, they lived and ate together. In the mornings, Uncle Wu drove them to the alley entrance, and the two would walk through the alley lined with breakfast stalls before parting ways at the fork—one heading to Foreign Language School, the other to the 33rd Middle School. In the evenings after school, they’d return home together and do homework side by side in the study.

They settled into a surprisingly smooth routine, yet upon closer inspection, their personalities couldn’t have been more different.

Wen was naturally carefree. Living in his own home, his only housemate was his wife of three years—though they were on the verge of divorce. Still, there was nothing left unseen between them. He knew Shen’s body inside out. He knew every mole, had traced the shape of his legs countless times, so he saw no need for restraint.

Thus, every time he finished showering, Wen would stride back to his room in boxer briefs with some flashy brand logo. If one’s gaze traveled lower, they’d see his legs, packed with strength. Water droplets would roll down from his thighs, trailing all the way to his ankles.

Shen, on the other hand, was far more reserved. The moment he stepped out of the bathroom, he was always fully dressed. Every time he caught sight of Wen, he’d catch his breath before burying himself in his homework as if to hide his reaction.

Days blurred together in a haze of studying.

That Friday, Foreign Language School held its open exam and monthly test on the same day.

The open exam was for top students from other schools—passing not only exempted tuition but also came with a big scholarship. The monthly test, meanwhile, was for the school’s own students.

Thus, for the first time, Wen and Shen stepped into the same school together.

Wen’s exam hall was in the First Teaching Building, while Shen’s was in the Second. They crossed the field together before parting beneath a row of stone sculptures at the center of the open space.

The sculptures depicted famous figures from various academic fields—Newton, Mendeleev, Mendel. Students had "offered" all sorts of odd snacks and drinks beneath them: apples placed on Newton’s head, pea crisps in Mendel’s hands, hoping for luck through pure superstition.

When Shen and Wen arrived, many students were still there—hands pressed together, whispering prayers beneath the statues. The crowd moved hurriedly, many clutching essential poetry collections or notes, squeezing in last-minute review. One student passing Wen with a dictionary was muttering, "abandon."

Nearby, a glass display case held the Honor Roll—the school-wide standings from the last monthly exam, names crammed wall-to-wall.

Shen Zhao stopped in his tracks and looked over there.

Wen Xian wasn’t nervous at first. As a thirty-year-old who had already graduated from college, played in a band, written a thesis, gotten married, divided the family assets, and was now facing divorce, what did a measly monthly exam matter to him?

But when he found himself caught up in this atmosphere, and Shen Zhao wanted to check the rankings, Wen Xian couldn’t help feeling tense.

He thought, *No way—if Shen Zhao checks the rankings and sees my score, what then?* So he yanked Shen Zhao away.

By the time they reached the split in the path leading to the first and second lecture halls, where they had no choice but to go their separate ways, Wen Xian’s heart was already pounding.

Nearby, a boy and a girl also came to a stop at the crossroads, forced to part. They seemed to be a young couple—though they tried carefully to hide it, their fingers, secretly intertwined under their uniforms, betrayed them.

When it was time to say goodbye, the boy held out his hand playfully and whispered, “Academic ace, academic ace, lend me your knowledge for now!”

The girl whispered back, “No chance! What’ll I do for my exam then?”

Even so, she gave his hand a light tap, as if transferring something.

Then they laughed and went their separate ways.

As a married—and soon-to-be-divorced—adult, Wen Xian rolled his eyes at the couple’s cheesiness. But when people are nervous, they act without thinking. Somehow, his brain glitched, and he inexplicably stretched out his hand, spouting, “Academic ace, academic ace, lend me your knowledge for now!”

The moment the words left his mouth, he wanted to slap himself.

*What kind of childish nonsense is that? How could I even say it?* Wen Xian thought. *Ten or twenty years from now, when we’re sitting across a negotiation table, Shen Zhao will remember this and die laughing.* Just as he was about to awkwardly pull his hand back, Shen Zhao gently patted his palm.

The young man tilted his head slightly, his slim frame wrapped in his school uniform, his demeanor clean and composed. His eyes, warm and teasing, sparkled with laughter.

He said, “Alright, I’ll lend it to you.”