Chapter 240: Cigarette Scar

Chapter 240: Smoke Scar

In a hurry, Wen Xian shut his eyes and yanked the covers up, faking sleep.

He listened closely for sounds from the bathroom.

Jiang Zhiyi pushed open the inner glass door, gave his hair a quick towel-dry, then opened and closed the main bathroom door as he stepped out—pausing at the bedside.

Wen Xian steadied his breathing.

Though his eyes stayed closed, he could feel Jiang Zhiyi looking him over—his eyes tracing his form, holding for a long moment without a sound.

The Wen family’s second son had an impeccable face.

Wen Xian’s eyes were slightly narrow and sharp, making him look unapproachable when awake, but now, lying peacefully asleep, he seemed much easier to be around than usual.

A faint *click* sounded as Jiang Zhiyi turned off the light, then carefully sat on the edge of the bed and eased himself onto it.

His movements were cautious. Then the mattress beside Wen Xian dipped slightly as Jiang Zhiyi lay flat beside him.

There was only one blanket on the bed, draped over Wen Xian.

Jiang Zhiyi didn’t reach for it. He simply lay there quietly, motionless, breathing evenly—whether sleeping or zoned out, it was hard to tell.

The bedroom air conditioning kept the room at a comfortable temperature, but outside, winter winds wailed. It was the dead of winter, and Jiang Zhiyi had just showered—his hair still damp.

Wen Xian tsked under his breath.

He made a show of rolling over, shifting closer to Jiang Zhiyi and tossing most of the blanket his way. His arm wrapped around him, pulling him into an embrace, chin resting atop his head, holding him firmly.

The body in his arms stiffened, his breath catching. Jiang Zhiyi whispered tentatively, “Wen Xian?”

Wen Xian didn’t answer.

He pretended to still be asleep, keeping Jiang Zhiyi locked tightly in his arms, like a random movement in his sleep.

Then, Wen Xian’s nose brushed against Jiang Zhiyi’s hair, his warm breath skimming the nape of his neck. Jiang Zhiyi went stiff as a board, barely breathing. Wen Xian inhaled lightly, thinking only that this scent was familiar.

A refreshing citrus note, mingled with grapefruit mint and lime, with a faint undertone of sandalwood. In their previous life, Jiang Zhiyi had preferred this scent in his bath products—every time he got out of the shower, he carried it. Whenever Wen Xian kissed the top of his head, he would catch it. Over the years, the home’s air fresheners had changed many times, but the citrus scent never did.

It wasn’t an expensive brand—in fact, it was likely the cheapest among all their bath products. Wen Xian had long since gotten sick of it and couldn’t understand why Jiang Zhiyi wouldn’t switch. He had even asked him once.

Jiang Zhiyi had smiled at the time and shot back, “Don’t you remember?”

Wen Xian had looked puzzled, so Jiang Zhiyi explained, “Back in high school, when we lived in that house near the foreign language school, you used this brand’s shampoo and body wash.”

Wen Xian suddenly understood.

By then, they had both achieved success. The house near the foreign language school had been bought by Zhang Xiaoping just for Wen Xian’s studies, later left empty after they moved. They had gone on to bigger, better homes, built grander careers—but Jiang Zhiyi had never forgotten that long summer, sitting across from Wen Xian, without a care in the world, nothing to worry about, nothing to think about—their only problem being the unsolvable final question on their homework.

Back then, he hadn’t yet entered the Shen family. There was no Shen Yuechuan, no Shen Jixing, and Jiang Zhiyi wasn’t Shen Zhao—he was just himself. That house near the foreign language school had been like a safe haven at a crossroads of fate, a rare moment to breathe before facing the truth of his mother’s death, allowing Jiang Zhiyi to inhale the crisp citrus scent amidst the clamor of cicadas and the sweltering summer heat.

So he had never forgotten.

Wen Xian had used that shampoo and body wash for three years. He was meticulous about cleanliness, washing often, practically soaked in the scent. If the Jiang Zhiyi of this life passed by him, he would surely recognize it.

“…”

Now, surrounded by the crisp fragrance in the quiet room, Wen Xian’s heart softened imperceptibly. An indescribable emotion surged wildly in his chest. He tightened his arms slightly, silently pulling Jiang Zhiyi in tighter.

In the darkness, Jiang Zhiyi's scent became even more pronounced.

The fresh, delicate citrus warmed by body heat seemed to transform into some kind of alluring pheromone, teasing faintly like tiny hooks ghosting into Wen Xian’s nostrils. He paused, then edged away subtly.

This body was only in its twenties, with his young lover in his arms—how could he resist? He wanted to kiss him, to savor the taste of his lips, to trace the curves of his body with his hands, to make their skin burn hotter, the citrus notes even brighter. But in the end, he did nothing.

Fortunately, Jiang Zhiyi didn’t notice. He remained stiff as a board.

A long time passed before the stiff figure in his arms finally relaxed again. As if certain that Wen Xian was asleep and wouldn’t wake easily, he nestled into a comfortable position in Wen Xian’s embrace, giving a faint nuzzle.

Wen Xian’s body tensed.

Already at his limit, and unable to make any sudden movements while pretending to sleep, Jiang Zhiyi could clearly feel the change in the body behind him.

The figure in his arms turned back into wood.

Wen Xian took a quiet breath, no longer able to keep up the act. He shifted slightly to the side, propping himself up on one elbow. “No, Mr. Shen, I—”

But there was no way to explain this clearly. What could he say? That despite every effort, despite their divorce papers needing only a signature, despite sleeping in separate rooms, despite their ugly rift, he suddenly wanted him so badly now? That he wanted to do what lovers do? Or should he confess that he’d been reborn, that past grievances no longer mattered?

Either way, it would sound like the words of a man desperate to justify his actions—the very worst kind of scumbag, the exact kind Wen Xian despised most.

Silently swallowing his excuses, Wen Xian muttered, “…I’ll go sleep in the guest room.”

“Want to?”

Jiang Zhiyi suddenly asked.

Before Wen Xian could react, Jiang Zhiyi raised a hand and began undoing the buttons of his pajamas.

He wore prim, old-style sleepwear, buttoned all the way to the top. When his collarbone was exposed to the air, fine gooseflesh rose on his skin. Then he took Wen Xian’s hand and placed it against his warm chest.

Jiang Zhiyi said nothing more.

It had always begun this way between them.

Two clumsy beginners, with no awareness or interest in exploration, and Jiang Zhiyi’s tendency to endure had led to a painful beginning each time.

Wen Xian snatched his hand back like he'd been burned.

Though he and Jiang Zhiyi had been married for years, this version in his arms was different—he needed patience, gentleness, not this kind of abrupt advance. Besides, Wen Xian remembered they’d already made love that afternoon, and it hadn’t been gentle. Jiang Zhiyi was probably still tender.

But the moment he withdrew his hand, Jiang Zhiyi fell silent.

The bedroom remained unlit, shrouded in darkness. Moonlight and streetlamp glow seeped through the gaps in the curtains, outlining Jiang Zhiyi’s silhouette. From the moment Wen Xian refused him, he stopped moving, leaving his collar gaping as he sat quietly in the shadows like a still sculpture.

Wen Xian sighed softly again.

This Jiang Zhiyi was different from the one who had been loved. Wen Xian wanted to take things slow, but rejection would only make him overthink.

So the man who had pretended to leave sat back down, tentatively reaching out to pull his lover close.

Wen Xian drew Jiang Zhiyi into his arms, brushing his nose against his earlobe. “I’ll be gentle, okay? I’ll be gentle.”

“…Okay.”

The figure in his arms turned rigid again, but it didn’t matter. Wen Xian was no longer the same man he’d been before. He knew his lover’s body too well, understood every hidden secret, knew exactly how to bring him pleasure. So he gently cupped Jiang Zhiyi’s chin and gave him a slow, deep kiss.

In this new life, this was the first time he had kissed Jiang Zhiyi.

His tongue slipped past parted lips, exploring the roof of his mouth. Wen Xian kissed with practiced ease and lingering intent, while Jiang Zhiyi, inexperienced and unsure, could only submit. Their ragged breathing mingled with soft wet sounds, a breathless tension settling over them. Without realizing it, his rigid body gradually relaxed.

Wen Xian brushed a few featherlight kisses at the corners of his lips, gently distracting his lover as his fingers moved to the back of his head, slipping into damp strands of hair, gathering a faint trace of moisture. Then, tracing down the neck, he followed each vertebra with delicate pressure, spreading the cool dampness across the skin until it evaporated. The chill contrasted sharply with the heat of his fingertips; every place he touched seemed to catch fire. Jiang Zhiyi trembled, helpless against the shivers that rippled through his spine, raising goosebumps like scattered pearls.

His hands roamed tenderly, never ceasing their gentle exploration—soft, delicate pecks dotted like spring rain across his face: the brow, the arch of the eyebrow, the lashes, the tip of the nose, the earlobes, the chin. Each kiss was light and tender, not the hungry heat of deep kissing, but filled with reverence and affection, as though he were caressing a priceless masterpiece or a cherished treasure.

But when his fingertips paused at Jiang Zhiyi’s waist, Wen Xian froze.

He felt the uneven, jagged ridges beneath his touch.

Cigarette burns.

A lattice of raised scars snaked around his waist and lower abdomen, covering a patch as wide as his palm, its rough texture a cruel testament to what this body had endured.

Before gym class, in that grove behind the school, Shen Jixing had once ambushed him—but Wen Xian hadn’t known, hadn’t come.

Jiang Zhiyi had just transferred to the foreign language school, had just won his scholarship. His pockets might even have held a drink meant for Wen Xian.

“…”

Wen Xian’s fingers traced the scars, his heart clenching like a fist, a tight ache stealing his breath.

So many burns—how much pain had there been?

Had they wept infection? Had they festered? In the Shen household, had he been able to care for them properly? On sleepless nights writhing in agony, had anyone soothed him?

Wen Xian couldn’t continue.

He stilled completely, fingertips pressed into the scar tissue, feeling its uneven texture. Heartbreak and protectiveness swamped him. For a moment, sorrow drowned desire entirely, and the kisses on Jiang Zhiyi’s face ceased.

Jiang Zhiyi tensed again.

In the past, whenever they had been intimate, Jiang Zhiyi had always carefully avoided this area. He loathed the Shen family, loathed Shen Jixing, loathed everything those scars represented—an unbearable past, a shadow from his youth that still haunted him. So now, when Wen Xian touched them and stopped, when the warmth between them cooled, Jiang Zhiyi began to shake uncontrollably.

He pushed Wen Xian away, stepping back until his spine met the headboard, voice hoarse as he muttered, “No, stop. Let’s just stop tonight.” Then, without another word, his shaking hands fought with the buttons.

Starting from the waist, his fingers trembled violently. The oversized buttons should’ve been simple, yet he fumbled again and again, unable to thread them through, growing more flustered with every failed attempt.

The next second, his hands were caught and pulled upward.

Wen Xian caged Jiang Zhiyi’s wrists with one hand, while the other parted the fabric. Gently leaning down, he pressed a kiss to the scars.

Soft, reverent, a constellation of kisses.