Cross the Boundary GL - Chapter 21

Li Chu could hardly believe her ears.

Back when she was studying painting, her classmates at the studio were precocious—she might not have “eaten the pork,” but she had certainly “seen the pig run.”

Yet hearing such words come from Qin Song’s mouth felt… bizarre.

Her mind went blank for more than ten seconds, and by then Qin Song had already walked up to her. Her sleeves were rolled unevenly high and low on her forearms. She was rarely so disheveled, but today was an exception—a humiliating one.

Li Chu began to suspect that Qin Song’s illness was flaring up again.

Sure enough, Qin Song didn’t even bother to pull her collar back up, instead slowly bending at the waist. Her light-colored hair tangled against the stud at her collarbone. A cold, detached person, and yet her breath was scorching hot beyond reason:

“Video…”

Li Chu immediately blurted out, “It wasn’t me watching it!”

The flustered tone only made her seem guiltier, like she was desperately trying to explain.

Qin Song stared at her for several seconds, then bent to pick up the corner of Li Chu’s bath towel.

Li Chu froze, breath caught in her throat, her heart hammering uncontrollably. She could only lean against the wall, helplessly letting Qin Song fuss with her.

The fabric’s cool edge lifted, baring her lower leg. Qin Song caught the scent of her body wash—something like milk and coconut, childish yet comforting.

Surprisingly, it filled the hollow in her chest, soothing that collapsing emptiness.

At first, Qin Song had only wanted to provoke Li Chu out of her own twisted impulses. But now, something else was beginning to stir.

The damp steam clung in the windowless room. The bath towel hung precariously from Qin Song’s hand, not quite covering Li Chu’s body anymore.

Instinctively, Li Chu raised her arms across her chest, forgetting the towel had already been lifted—the heavier side was still caught in Qin Song’s grasp.

With the faintest release, the weight shifted and slid.

The towel dropped with a whoosh to the wooden floor, erasing the only barrier between them.

Li Chu whirled around in panic, lashes squeezed shut, her skin flushing into a delicate pink of mortified shame.

But Qin Song’s gaze lingered, unwavering. Those lifeless eyes carried nothing of desire.

Out of nowhere, Li Chu felt a sting of humiliation and grievance. She was already an adult—her figure wasn’t that bad, was it?

The longer Qin Song stared, the more Li Chu crumpled inward, until at last she panicked and tried to flee into the bathroom.

Qin Song normally didn’t care about anyone’s survival, but her body reacted faster than her reason. She caught Li Chu—

Her hand happened to land somewhere far too intimate. Soft. Yielding. Unusually delicate.

A rush of crimson shot up Li Chu’s face. Shame and fury tangled, and despair welled up too.

She looked like a cooked shrimp, writhing frantically, her gaze accidentally catching on Qin Song’s bare collarbone where the shirt wouldn’t close, rising sharply like a peak. Without thinking, she bit down.

The sudden pain jolted Qin Song’s nerves. It gave her an excuse. She spun Li Chu around, pinning her to the tiled bathroom wall.

The cold tiles shocked Li Chu into clarity, a weak cry escaping her throat.

The frozen air between them suddenly ignited. Qin Song’s restrained, cool breath brushed her ear, unhurried and teasing.

And at that exact moment, the laptop flickered back on, blaring the video’s syrupy, exaggerated moans. Li Chu wanted desperately to shut it off—

But Qin Song didn’t allow her the chance. Bracing one arm above Li Chu’s head, her tall figure shadowed the light. She repeated meaningfully:

“Do it?”

Fresh from her shower, the towel lay discarded beneath her feet. Li Chu stood with nothing to cover herself, shivering in the chill.

As Qin Song slowly eased some of her pressure, Li Chu instinctively clung to her for warmth, wrapping herself around her body to steal heat.

Qin Song’s whole body was cold—except here. Li Chu’s limbs were icy, her breath fanning against her, seeking warmth.

Beneath Qin Song’s shirt, the coffee-colored bra strap slipped off a shoulder. Li Chu deliberately tugged it down further, curious how Qin Song would react if her composure truly cracked.

But Qin Song was unwell tonight. Instead of resisting, she simply let Li Chu’s closeness happen, calm and unbothered.

Li Chu wondered—was it because of that bite earlier? Had it pleased her?

It must have. Qin Song’s kiss descended—tender, lingering, unbearably hot. Li Chu didn’t understand how someone so cold could burn like this, heat seeping from her palms deep into her chest.

The misty haze blurred their eyes and breaths, everything damp and heated.

Qin Song’s gaze softened, luminous and gentle, but it couldn’t erase the chill within. Detached. Unfeeling.

Her voice, however, was low, coaxing, steeped in sensuality:

“Answer the question.”

“I…” Li Chu’s wide eyes trembled. Anxiety twisted in her chest—she didn’t believe Qin Song was doing this out of love.

Qin Song lowered her lashes, letting her imagination run wild, though her patience was waning. Li Chu saw her teeth nudge at her tongue stud.

After all this time together, Li Chu had learned to read some of Qin Song’s habits. She almost felt proud of herself—deciphering the patterns of someone so aloof.

Did this mean their distance was closing?

Qin Song’s patience snapped. She reached across the nightstand, and the crisp clink of metal made Li Chu’s heart lurch.

Their noses brushed as Qin Song leaned in, her kiss hot enough to melt.

The chain slipped around Li Chu’s neck like a necklace. Forced to tilt her head back, her eyes blurred in confusion.

She thought it would connect them—but realized she alone was bound. Because Qin Song had seen her gaze, wide and pure, untouched even when stained with desire.

Her black hair clung damply to her cheeks, lips pale from the draft—almost begging to be tormented.

So it wasn’t strange at all that Qin Song’s thoughts darkened. Tugging the other end of the chain, she pulled Li Chu forward until her legs hit the bed. Li Chu stumbled into her arms.

Qin Song’s hand covered her eyes before her lips descended, tasting and teasing her tongue.

Blinded, Li Chu panicked. She could only hear—the restrained breaths by her ear, the humiliating video still playing on the laptop.

Her hands braced against Qin Song’s shoulders, glimpsing through her fingers the scatter of lilac hair across the sheets, like a bloom of pink flowers.

Then suddenly the light shifted. Qin Song had pulled out her phone with one hand, still holding the chain in the other.

Li Chu thought the “game” was ending—Qin Song’s face had grown cold again, eyes drained of warmth.

“I’m going to the hospital.” Qin Song’s hair spilled down her back and shoulders, shrouding Li Chu’s arm.

Li Chu touched her neck where the clasp hung. “Is it… your uncle?”

As she spoke, she unfastened the lock.

Qin Song’s bony hand still held the other end loosely, chain dangling over her fingertips. “Will you come?”

Li Chu blinked in surprise, not understanding at first.

“He…” Qin Song hesitated, lashes trembling several times. Under the dim lamp, her emotions were unreadable. “He wants me to have friends.”

Li Chu’s heart sank like a stone, plummeting into darkness. That could only mean Qin Zhen… wasn’t going to last.

By the time they reached the hospital, Qin Song’s hair was still disheveled from getting out of bed. They rushed into the elevator. As the doors closed, Li Chu sneaked a glance at her.

Qin Song merely leaned in the corner with her eyes shut, her pale hand trembling weakly on the railing.

At the seventh floor, Li Chu clasped that frail hand. Qin Song tried to pull away, but she held on stubbornly—like that time in the foggy forest.

Room 704 was hushed. Ye Wanqing sobbed so hard she could barely stand, nurses supporting her to a chair.

When they arrived, the crowd by the bed parted.

Just that morning, Qin Zhen had come out of surgery. Now, he was already at death’s door. The sudden decline in a single day left Li Chu aching.

Qin Song pulled her hand free, taking Qin Zhen’s instead.

She sat at the bedside, leaning close to him.

Qin Zhen’s sunken eyes brightened faintly at the sight of her. Though ravaged beyond recognition, he still summoned the strength to speak.

“I shouldn’t have let you stay with her. I didn’t realize Zheng Chengfeng’s reach was so vast…” His brittle fingers clutched her wrist. “I thought if you were unhappy, I could still take you home… Lele, it was your father who was wrong…”

Qin Song’s face was blurred by the fluorescent glare, her silhouette hazy. From behind the crowd, Li Chu couldn’t make out her features.

“You must learn to miss people, to love people, to leave traces for the ones you care about. I beg you…”

Qin Zhen gasped painfully, then whispered, voice frail as a sigh:

“Live well, my child. Love this world.”

The wind stirred the curtain, veiling the father and daughter in half-shadow. Qin Song straightened, her gaze searching through the crowd until it locked with Li Chu’s. The jolt made Li Chu’s chest quiver—she hurried forward.

Qin Song’s fingers were icy as she reached out to hold hers—for the first time ever, and at such a sorrowful moment.

“I made a new friend,” she said awkwardly, unused to emotion. “So don’t worry.”

Qin Zhen studied Li Chu carefully, straining to lift his head. She leaned closer so he could see her properly.

“Good child,” Qin Zhen said through tears, relief softening his face. “Still so young? Thank you for looking after Lele.”

Li Chu’s throat burned, but she refused to cry here. She held back her tears. “Uncle, don’t worry.”

Qin Zhen passed away at 4:36 a.m. Rain in late autumn fell relentlessly, drenching the hospital grounds.

Li Chu stood frozen at the window, watching the funeral home’s black car arrive downstairs.

In the Qin family’s business world, traditions and taboos forbade home vigils. The body would go straight to cremation, then the funeral held afterward.

She overheard the elders discussing this from behind the door. With Qin Song absent, she accompanied them to the crematorium.

“Xiao Chu, Xiao Chu…”

Li Chu snapped back, turning to smile faintly at the old man behind her. But the smile was hollow. “Qin Song’s father has passed away.”

Director Hu removed his glasses. “You must tell her to grieve with restraint.”

“…”

Li Chu sat silently on the bedside, stroking the old man’s wrinkled hand, etched with age.

“Death isn’t frightening. Being forgotten is.”

At last, Li Chu broke down and wept.

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