Chapter 233: Ring

Chapter 233: The Ring

In the darkness, his senses heightened. Wen Xian couldn’t clearly see the face of the person before him—only a vague silhouette.

He felt Jiang Zhiyi’s fingers land on a sensitive spot, followed by the sound of metal clinking. Jiang tugged at Wen Xian’s belt, his fingers fumbling clumsily over it. Wen Xian had to raise his hand to stop him. “Zhiyi, you…”

Jiang Zhiyi breathed, “Wen Xian.”

“Wen… Xian.”

“Wen Xian.”

He repeated the name three times, each syllable drawn out and tender, with a tipsy nasal lilt.

Wen Xian froze.

The Jiang Zhiyi from his previous life had never called his name in such a tone. That Jiang had been accustomed to bottling up all his pain, covering it with a calm, indifferent smile—just as rumors described him: rigid, cold, and unapproachable. Wen Xian had never known the grievances he once endured.

With a sigh, Wen Xian’s heart softened.

Fumbling in the dark, he steadied Jiang Zhiyi’s shoulders, tentatively pulling the drunkard into his arms. He soothingly ruffled the short hair at the back of Jiang Zhiyi’s head and patted his slender back, resigned. “Fine, you win. Why call me so suddenly? Does Xiao Jiang need help with something?”

“Yes.”

The drunkard’s words were clear, showing no sign he was drunk, yet his fingers remained hooked on Wen Xian’s belt. His brows furrowed, eyes slightly narrowed, his tone suspicious. “Why can’t I undo this buckle?”

Jiang Zhiyi sounded troubled, as if questioning a shareholder’s decision or racking his brain over an impossible exam question.

Wen Xian: “…”

So *this* is what you’re upset about? You’re upset because you can’t undo my belt???

A vein throbbed in Wen Xian’s forehead. The tenderness he had mustered felt like it had been fed to a dog. He took hold firmly of Jiang Zhiyi’s hand and tucked it under the blanket. “Alright, alright, that’s enough. Stop messing around—”

Before he could finish, his breath caught in his throat again.

The well-worn belt, having endured too much rough handling, finally gave way. The buckle slipped from its clasp, and in the next moment, Jiang Zhiyi’s hand slid beneath, his fingers unconsciously closing around a certain spot.

Xiao Jiang’s fingers were long, his fingertips bearing faint calluses—a remnant of holding pens in high school.

Wen Xian was at his limit.

He, a man who’d been reborn, had gone years without intimacy. Now, in a body barely into his twenties—youthful and vibrant, with a soul already married—his wife was right in front of him. Those hands, so used to gripping pens and documents, now held *there*… With all these factors combined, no one could withstand it.

Jiang Zhiyi leaned in drunkenly, kissing him again. Truly, the academic ace lived up to his reputation—somehow, amid the clumsy clashing of teeth, he had figured out the rhythm and taught himself how to kiss. Wen Xian, tickled by the playful licks, couldn’t help but raise a hand to cradle the back of Jiang Zhiyi’s head, and then…

Entwined, sucking, kissing, suffocating.

The curtains fluttered in the wind, letting in a ripple of moonlight. By that faint glow, Wen Xian caught a glimpse of his lover.

Jiang Zhiyi was right before him, dressed in business attire, his hair slicked back—looking eighty percent the same as his past self. But now, he stared steadily at Wen Xian, a soft smile curling his lips.

For a moment, the threads of their two lives seemed to converge—youthful and mature, gentle and stern, passionate and restrained, silent and overflowing with love.

A pang of bittersweet longing welled up in Wen Xian’s chest, spreading through his veins. He steadied his lover’s waist—once marred by cigarette burns, now smooth and unblemished. Amid their ragged breaths, Wen Xian reached out, his fingers brushing the center of the shirt garters.

…

Without condoms or lube handy, Wen Xian didn’t go all the way. The drunkard fell into a deep sleep afterward, while Wen Xian resignedly got up, washed his hands, filled the bathtub, and carefully placed Jiang Zhiyi inside.

The shirt was dirty, and the tie pin was ruined. Wen Xian held his lover close to keep him from slipping into the bathtub, his eyes lingering on this body that felt both familiar and strange. He rubbed his chin and guiltily looked away.

Jiang Zhiyi in his past life had been rather thin, but this time around he was healthier—his legs were evenly proportioned and straight, and his curves were just right.

After cleaning him up, Wen Xian placed him back on the bed, dug through his luggage for a clean shirt, then tucked him under the covers before finally relaxing.

Once everything was done, Wen Xian turned to look at his lover, buried in the pillows. Jiang Zhiyi’s once-tight frown had eased, as if he were happy again.

“…”

Wen Xian took a deep breath, took a rushed shower, gave in and climbed into bed, drawing his lover into his arms. He rested his hand on Jiang Zhiyi’s shoulder blade and closed his eyes to sleep.

Before drifting off, Wen Xian thought: “Tomorrow I need to find a chance to make my feelings clear.”

*

The next morning, Jiang Zhiyi woke with a pounding hangover headache.

It felt like he’d suddenly woken from a long, peaceful dream. As he scanned the empty room and became aware of his freshly cleaned body, he raised a hand and gently pressed it against his temple.

Had it all been a dream?

The passion and confusion of the previous day seemed like a beautiful vision that left no trace. Jiang Zhiyi sat still on the edge of the bed, unusually slow to get up.

He didn’t actually know Wen Xian’s sexual orientation.

Wen Xian had never dated anyone, male or female. His family was heterosexual, so statistically speaking, Wen Xian was more likely to be straight.

Jiang Zhiyi recalled how they had met and grown close. Their few physical interactions had always been restrained—easily explained as friendly gestures. Jiang Zhiyi had carefully kept his distance, patient and willing to wait. He wasn’t going to recklessly cross any lines until he was certain, not wanting to throw away his advantage.

But yesterday, he had let his guard down.

Zhang Xiaoping’s words and Song Xuan’s appearance had stirred a sense of urgency. Jiang Zhiyi was alone, with only Wen Xian in his life. But Wen Xian was different—he had friends, old companions, and maybe even…

A childhood sweetheart.

Jiang Zhiyi lowered his gaze slightly, his eyes growing shadowed.

He couldn’t quite remember what had happened the night before. He had drunk too much, grabbed onto Wen Xian, who then took him home. After that, everything went blank. In his dream, he had pinned Wen Xian beneath him, held his hands, kissed him deeply, and wrapped himself around him…

Jiang Zhiyi pressed his aching forehead and thought, “Thankfully, it was just a dream.”

In the dream, his possessiveness had been overwhelming, his actions too bold—so unlike his usual self. If he had frightened Wen Xian and caused them to drift apart, it would have been a loss he couldn’t afford.

After sitting by the bed and sorting out his thoughts, Jiang Zhiyi got up to wash up. The mirror reflected his pale, hungover face, sleep-mussed hair, and wrinkled clothes—not exactly guest-ready, especially not for seeing Wen Xian. Luckily, he had no plans for the morning, so he decided to go out for breakfast to regain some strength before resting again.

But when he reached the entrance, Jiang Zhiyi stopped short.

Where was his key card?

Had he dropped it somewhere after getting drunk last night?

Just as he was about to call the front desk for a replacement, the door clicked open. Jiang Zhiyi turned and saw Wen Xian holding a tray, changing into slippers at the doorway.

Jiang Zhiyi caught his breath. “You?”

Why was Wen Xian here?

His mind raced, but all he could do was stare, his disheveled hair making him look dazed.

Wen Xian smiled. “Me? I brought you breakfast.”

He placed the tray on the table, which held milk, eggs, bacon, and freshly baked butter cakes, their golden-brown hue looking delicious.

Wen Xian handed him a fork. "Mr. Jiang, you barely ate anything last night. Aren’t you hungry? You should at least have breakfast."

Jiang Zhiyi couldn't quite grasp the current situation. He sat down beside Wen Xian, neatly picking up a small cake with his fork. Then he noticed Wen Xian cough slightly before taking out a box from the fridge.

It was yesterday’s cake. Since Wen Xian had stayed over, he couldn’t just leave it in the car and had to bring it inside to refrigerate. Fortunately, it hadn’t spoiled in just one day.

But Jiang Zhiyi didn’t know what it was. He watched as Wen Xian turned around and began fixing something at the counter, his gaze following him. His breakfast suddenly lost its appeal. As he ate, he choked—a bit of cake caught in his throat—and he covered his mouth, coughing.

Noticing this, Wen Xian casually sat beside him. Holding a cup of tea in one hand, he gently placed the other on Jiang Zhiyi’s back, patting it twice. “Be careful. That cough sounds serious—have some water to wash it down.”

From Wen Xian’s perspective, since they were together now, sharing a cup of water was nothing.

But Jiang Zhiyi refused again. He swallowed the bread, brushed the crumbs off with a napkin, and finally looked up. “Wen Xian, I… last night…”

Jiang Zhiyi was visibly uncomfortable, wanting to ask why Wen Xian was in his room and what exactly had happened the previous night. But he feared confusing dreams with reality, leaving him flustered and at a loss for words.

Meanwhile, Wen Xian had already placed the cake at the center of the table.

It was an eight-inch decorated cake, meticulously crafted by the baker to depict a rainy city night—chaotic streets, neon lights blurred by the rain, wet asphalt roads with clear reflections of car headlights. Every streetlamp was made of fondant, and the “water” effect was a layer of grayish translucent jelly. Without a doubt, this was a custom-made, expensive cake.

Jiang Zhiyi caught his breath.

He recognized this place.

He knew every street on that cake, every bustling intersection. He remembered what the vendors on either side sold and could almost smell the jianbing pancakes and sizzling sausages from memory.

This was the entrance of the 33rd Middle School and Foreign Languages High School—on that night when it was pouring rain.

That night, Wen Xian had been sitting in the car while Jiang Zhiyi stood in the rain—one cozy and dry, the other soaked and shivering. Then Wen Xian reached out and pulled Jiang Zhiyi into the car.

And just like that, the cold faded, replaced by warmth.

That was the beginning of their story.

Jiang Zhiyi froze in place, staring at the cake.

…What did it mean to order such a cake?

Today wasn’t his birthday, nor Wen Xian’s. No one was celebrating anything. Yet the cake sat there, as if to say: “Today is a very important day.”

Jiang Zhiyi’s thoughts short-circuited.

His mind was a jumbled mess as Wen Xian sat across from him, took his hand, and pressed a cake knife into it.

Amid the haze, Wen Xian’s voice seemed to reach him as if from a distance—muffled yet every word crystal clear.

He said, “Zhiyi, I don’t know if this is too sudden.”

He said, “I also don’t know if my feelings align with yours.”

He said, “Last night, I got carried away. Some things really should come after a confession. I hope I didn’t scare you.”

He said, "But I really hope every night can be like last night—holding you in my arms. I think, in this life, I’ll never feel such an impulse for anyone else again. I want to hold your hand, no matter what life we’re in, until the end of our days."

He said, "If you'd like to, please cut the cake. There's a gift inside for you."

Jiang Zhiyi’s hand trembled slightly as he gripped the cream knife. For a moment, he couldn’t tell whether he was dreaming or awake. When he looked up, Wen Xian’s usually carefree expression had turned completely serious—just as nervous about his answer.

So Jiang Zhiyi raised his hand and cut into the cake.

At the center of the cake lay a small box. Inside was a card adorned with elegant gold-foiled English script.

Wen Xian explained, "It's a custom invitation from a top-tier jeweler. I searched forever for a ring, but then I thought—it should be something we pick out together."

In their previous life, their wedding rings had been hastily and carelessly chosen. Wen Xian hadn't been involved at all, like it didn't matter to him. He never knew what Jiang Zhiyi had felt when selecting the design, purchasing the main stone, and exchanging rings with him at the wedding banquet.

All he knew was this: Jiang Zhiyi had worn that ring—one he’d had no part in choosing—for three whole years. Alone.

This time, he wanted to choose it together with Jiang Zhiyi.