Cross the Boundary GL - Chapter 25

Qin Song’s lips grew warm, like nectar drawn from a flower’s core, swelling with fullness.

So when Li Chu turned her head, what she saw were those vivid lips. Qin Song’s lips usually seemed pale, almost fragile, but with color flushed into them, her lip bead looked like a ripe, red berry ready to drip.

When bitten, even the ruby set in her tongue piercing seemed to lose its brilliance, leaving only that berry for one to taste and savor.

Her kisses were fierce and intricate, like a typhoon’s wind and the drizzle of rain fused together, overwhelming Li Chu until she lost her balance. She stumbled backward, her waist striking the table’s edge, struggling to steady herself.

Her calves trembled, tiptoeing in vain until she collapsed onto her elbows for support. The fabric of her inner sleeve was pinned beneath her palm, tugging her collar down with it.

The neckline and shoulder strap fell away. Qin Song’s hand slid behind her shoulder blades, and with one fluid motion, smoothed the creases downward.

Her eyes blurred with red, tears shimmering like pink crystals. Suddenly her body lifted, carried to another place where she wouldn’t have to strain.

Without her clothes, Li Chu’s knees turned scarlet from the cold, so she instinctively sought warmth. She wedged them beneath Qin Song’s shirt, trapped inside her skirt. But Qin Song was so slender that Li Chu had to cross her legs tightly to cling to her waist.

Qin Song glanced down once, arching her back and pressing forward, forcing Li Chu’s legs to tilt back along with her.

Their kissing and touching moved together, flowing with the tide like an endless sea.

Li Chu felt pain—dull aches where collarbone and tongue stud collided, sharp sting where fingertips grazed. Yet as the flood of sensation consumed her, she realized the pain wasn’t frightening at all. Instead, it was tangled with… pleasure.

For adults, it was simple—who could tell if this was love or just an eruption of emotion?

Li Chu admitted she wasn’t surrendering to mere impulse.

She thought, perhaps Qin Song was the irrational one, drowning in grief, her feelings capsizing into the vastness of desire.

Squinting against the overhead light that blurred her vision, Li Chu’s eyes glistened, wet and luminous. Tears trickled past her temples, soaking into the quilt’s patterned fabric, darkening it.

Qin Song stared at her, then unexpectedly lifted her hand—the clean one—to wipe away those tears. A soft glow spread across her cold face, carrying an almost tender warmth.

If there was love in that moment, it was something she might confess only to the moon.

Where Qin Song touched, dampness clung, water tracing the lines of her palm. When she lifted her hand again, the light caught on a small mole in her palm.

Such a mark seemed ill-suited to someone so merciless, and yet the sight of it stirred a strange warmth inside Li Chu.

She found, against all odds, a sliver of possibility.

—To stay with this woman forever.

The thought came swiftly, and Li Chu couldn’t tell if it was simply Qin Song’s rare tenderness that filled her emptiness, like the ache inside her heart now soothed and stirred.

Drawn into the tide of her hands, she longed to drown in it.

After bathing, Li Chu emerged to see Qin Song sitting at the bedside, smoking. She was still dressed as before, pants cuffed unevenly at her legs.

“Do you want dinner?” Li Chu asked. Her skin still flushed from heat and steam, her voice soft. Truthfully, she was hungry.

The glow of Qin Song’s phone lit her sharp eyes, cold and unreadable, as if nothing intimate had happened. After typing a moment, she handed the phone over.
“Order whatever you want.”

But Li Chu shook her head. “Let’s eat outside.”

Outside, the typhoon had passed. The night air was fresh, carrying the earthy scent of soil and the warmth of street food.

Under the golden lamps, Li Chu’s lashes shimmered yellow. She walked ahead, steps faltering—her body still reeling from their earlier storm. Something about it left her awkward, unsteady.

Qin Song followed, hands in her pockets, her shirt neat and composed, nothing like the woman who moments ago had been consumed by desire.

The contrast felt like a secret. Li Chu secretly rejoiced at it—because in that secret, Qin Song belonged to her alone.

But even after their intimacy, Li Chu couldn’t believe Qin Song’s feelings matched her own.

Could Qin Song truly love? Would her love be as tender as her heated kisses, or as cold as always?

Li Chu couldn’t picture her being gentle. The burning touches felt like a dream, too unreal to trust.

They walked far, finding an elegant restaurant. But just as they sat down, a phone call drained all color from Li Chu’s face.

At the hospital, silence hung. Nurses busied with equipment before telling them:
“The surgery was successful, but the patient hasn’t passed the critical stage yet. No overnight stays allowed these days.”

Qin Song turned to Li Chu, catching the flash of despair in her expression. Dean Hu had grown frail with age, a truth no one could change.

“Just look from the door tonight,” the nurse advised gently. “The patient won’t wake until tomorrow. Don’t worry.” She lingered on Qin Song, perhaps trusting her composure.

Qin Song hadn’t planned to respond, but Li Chu’s visible exhaustion tugged at her. Almost against her will, she nodded.

Relieved, the nurse left.

Hospitals were merciless—joy and grief intertwined. Qin Zhen had only just passed, and now Dean Hu hovered at death’s edge.

Li Chu leaned her forehead against the doorframe, drained and desolate.

She finally understood Qin Song’s weariness: knowing someone you love is bound to leave soon, with no way to hold them back, the helplessness eats at all joy like a parasite.

The motion-sensor lights in the hall flickered off, leaving them in darkness. Qin Song, her patience worn thin by the night’s earlier excess, lit the lamps with the click of her heel. Coldly, she said,
“I’m leaving.”

“Alright,” Li Chu murmured without lifting her head.

But the sound of footsteps never came. Confused, she looked up. Qin Song leaned against the wall, arms folded, making no move to go.

“It’s fine,” Li Chu mumbled, pressing her voice low as she buried her head against the wooden door. “Go ahead. I’ll stay a bit longer.”

“Mm.” Qin Song bowed her head, pink hair spilling over her arm, strands slipping through her tattooed sleeve. “We’ll see.”

The words puzzled Li Chu.

When the lights went out again, Qin Song considered going downstairs for a smoke. As she pushed off the wall, Li Chu softly called out,
“Qin Song.”

Unable to see her cold eyes in the dark, Li Chu dared to speak more freely.
“Do you think… right now, our pain is finally equal?”

The cigarette box pricked Qin Song’s palm, startling her with its sting.

“I don’t know what happiness means to you,” Li Chu whispered bitterly. “But I think our pain is equal now. At least, I can understand you. And maybe you…” She gave a twisted smile. “Maybe you can understand me.”

Qin Song had lost her only family. Li Chu was about to face the same. In that moment, they seemed balanced.

“My chest hurts so badly right now,” Li Chu continued, clutching at it as she sank down, weakly tapping the door. “It hurts enough to make me clear-headed. I’m sorry—for prying into your past before. I thought you clung to it… but pain like this, it’s unbearable. It suffocates.”

To survive, Qin Song had forced herself to grow attached to suffering, twisting her nature, because there was no escape from Zheng Chengfeng’s cage.

But before that distortion, the storms she had endured were unimaginable.

The hall lit again at Li Chu’s knock. Qin Song stared at her, cigarette pack spilling tobacco into her palm.

She had always thought Li Chu naïve, sheltered, untouched by the world’s shadows. With Dean Hu’s gentle love, her life was cushioned. Qin Song believed her pain greater. But now, looking closer, perhaps their wounds weren’t so different.

Two lonely shadows crossed on the wall. Qin Song felt dazed—what was this sympathy? Why did it feel so strange?

Her mind drifted to the contract between them.

They had been meeting mostly at night, and tonight again, Li Chu spoke through muffled sobs as if behind thick glass:
“You should go. Please. Thank you.”

For the first time, she asked her to leave, resolute.

So Qin Song went. Long after stepping through the hospital doors, she finally lit a cigarette. After the first drag, she stopped, glancing back.

The towering building loomed against the clouds, but in her mind she saw Li Chu’s small frame swallowed inside it.

Rejecting the image, she turned away and caught a ride home.

Her apartment had been neglected for days. She cleaned, then stepped onto the balcony to gather laundry. On the windowsill sat a tiny succulent—a birthday gift from Qin Zhen. She had never watered it, but the stubborn thing had thrived through four seasons, even blooming tiny pink buds at its tip.

The color reminded her of Li Chu’s body, flushed and damp.

Qin Zhen’s plant lived on with resilience, just as he had. Yet Qin Song thought of his last words to her—
That she must learn to love, to miss, to stay in this world for what she truly desired.

Perhaps he had seen her weariness with life, the scars she bore that were not all left by Zheng Chengfeng.

Qin Song leaned against the balcony rail, gazing down at the shrubs below, until the robotic vacuum docked itself and the hum ceased. She blinked, noticing her legs tingling numb.

Changing clothes and shutting off the light, she hesitated—then took her keys again and left.

The elevator’s lamp was broken. Inside the small, confined space, pressure closed in around her.

She pressed the door shut, then after only one floor, stopped and opened it again. Sweat dampened her palm, sticky and familiar—like the imprint of Li Chu’s trembling hand in hers.

Qin Song closed her eyes, letting the darkness gnaw at her.

Then—ding. The doors slid open, garage lights spilling in.

The elevator spoke mechanically:
“Basement level one.”

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