Cross the Boundary GL - Chapter 30

That night, Qin Song really did stay in Li Chu’s little loft. The rain outside was heavy, but since there were no windows, she couldn’t see the storm—only the faint pattering against the iron door downstairs.

After Li Chu went to shower, Qin Song opened a can of beer.

She never liked drinking. The bitterness always reminded her of the days she was locked in an iron cage.

Several times, Zheng Chengfeng deliberately withheld water, leaving only expired beer in the bowl for weeks—sour and bitter.

Back then, she had no choice. And though she had long since escaped, her hatred of alcohol remained deeply ingrained.

But now there was no other outlet for her emotions. She had vented the excess feelings between her and Li Chu, but she couldn’t speak of the grief of losing her father.

The one person in the world who had protected her the most was gone, his remains sealed in a small urn, buried underground.

Just as Qin Song swallowed a mouthful of beer, the bathroom door opened.

Li Chu stepped out, droplets still clinging to the corners of her lips, her eyes bright and misty. She looked over: “Why are you drinking?”

She dried herself off and walked closer. Qin Song felt the mattress dip slightly as Li Chu sat beside her, hugging her knees. “Are you feeling really bad?”

Qin Song held the can, her voice flat: “And what difference would it make if I am?”

The dead would never come back.

“Then…” Li Chu stared off blankly for a moment before saying, “What would make it hurt less?”

Their relationship had indeed drawn closer. At least now, they could sit side by side and talk about feelings—and more importantly, Qin Song wasn’t showing impatience.

Her lips curved faintly, eyes shifting from the mist by the bathroom door to the girl before her: “I don’t know.”

Li Chu pressed her lips together, then tentatively asked: “Do you… want to go to the seaside?”

Qin Song drained the rest of the beer and opened another one. With a soft hiss, the can popped, leaving shallow marks on her fingers.

She slowly rubbed her fingertips together, lost in thought.

Li Chu waited until she grew drowsy, uncertain which side Qin Song would sleep on. In the end, she curled up by the wall, her hair spilling across the pillow like ink.

The long ends of it brushed against Qin Song’s fingers, tickling her with a secret itch.

Maybe she really was sick.

Qin Song pinched a few strands, and the thought struck her: her condition was worsening. A pathological possessiveness, a pathological need for control, a pathological rush of desire overwhelming her calm.

On the table lay her removed earrings and rings, gleaming faintly in the dark like weapons laid aside.

Of the three rings, two had been gifts from Qin Zhen and Qin Zhao. The last was a custom piece, its edge deliberately sharpened.

She had wanted countless times to use that ring to slice her throat—or some other place. But each time, a voice in her mind whispered: Wait. Don’t rush to leave.

Her body’s survival instinct always outweighed the thought, and so she had never succeeded.

Her fingers brushed the tattoo at her wrist. The uneven scars beneath it were reminders of everything she had endured. Ink could cover the skin, but never the heart.

And Li Chu’s presence seemed to fill the cracks inside.

Perhaps she was too addicted to pain—so much so that if this girl gave her the most exquisite pain, she might grow dependent, even obsessed.

That contract, taped neatly on the shelf, came to mind. One copy for each of them, the words in black and white.

Qin Song told herself it was only because of a sense of contract.

She didn’t believe in love. She only believed in what was nailed down.

But she couldn’t deny it: even if the first kiss had been only to pass on breath, the moment their lips met, she had felt a reaction that was far more than mental.

The moments after—the birthday banquet, the amusement park, the car accident, Qin Zhen’s funeral—Li Chu had always been like water, soft and yielding. It was impossible not to think of more. Impossible to stop the body’s raw impulses.

Even following her on the company site, Qin Song couldn’t block out the subtle, surging energy between them, restrained yet blazing.

Just like when Lin Zhiyan appeared, or when her wound had been exposed—she had been angry, unreasonably furious. Angrier than when her claustrophobia had been discovered.

And in the elevator—that embrace of Li Chu’s had been as warm as tonight’s. She had never felt that before, except for the night when Qian Fang had carried her to the hospital.

It felt both natural and fated.

Li Chu was asleep now, curled up in the shadows at the edge of the bed. Her small body looked frail, her shoulders delicate. Qin Song leaned closer.

Her long hair brushed against the girl’s face, making her frown, dimples shifting faintly at the corners of her lips.

That gentle face was harmless. Qin Song thought of how people always whispered that she looked too sharp, too aggressive—and her personality even more so. For years, bits and pieces of it had reached her ears.

So she avoided people, and people avoided her. No one at Yangxin was sincere.

Maybe she was simply used to it—used to not trusting, not depending, not seeking warmth from anyone.

The faint smell of alcohol filled the air. Qin Song wanted a cigarette, so she went downstairs since the loft had no windows.

When she pushed open the iron door, rain splashed against her face, soaking the red lantern outside. Its electronic glow flickered desperately against the storm, slicing the ground below into flashes of light and shadow.

The cigarette crackled. Qin Song stretched out her hand, letting the rain soak her wrist, when suddenly something weighed down her shoulder.

“You’ll catch a cold…” Li Chu’s voice was thick with sleep as she rubbed her eyes. “It’s so chilly out, you should at least wear a coat if you’re smoking.”

Qin Song lowered her gaze. Draped across her shoulder was a light green jacket, carrying the faint scent of wood from the wardrobe.

She often couldn’t understand Li Chu’s way of thinking—like now.

“Be careful not to catch a cold.” Li Chu, oblivious to her thoughts, rubbed her hands together, then rose on her toes to touch the wind chime doll swaying in the rain. “The rain’s too heavy. Once you finish smoking…”

Her words were swallowed by a sudden kiss. Qin Song’s lips were cold, tasting of alcohol and rain, blurred with the bitterness of smoke.

They kissed beneath the lantern’s glow, red light shimmering in their eyes. Li Chu blinked, only for Qin Song’s long fingers to cover her eyes.

And then Qin Song drew her back into the shop, shutting the storm outside.

Li Chu’s heart pounded with unease at what was about to happen. She longed to give in, yet feared the aftermath.

Qin Song leaned against the counter, her waist-length hair caught up by a pink ribbon meant for wrapping boxes. Li Chu reached out to untie it.

The soft ribbon brushed past her chin. Something in Qin Song twitched, and she caught the ribbon before Li Chu could set it aside.

The world before Li Chu blurred into a pink-tinted haze, the soft glow gathering around her. She squinted, but couldn’t make out Qin Song’s face.

A sense of insecurity welled up. “Qin Song… where are you?”

The shadow shifted. A moment later, the cold touch of a tongue stud grazed her earlobe. Li Chu shivered, her heart swaying wildly.

With her sight gone, her other senses magnified. Her legs trembled, unable to stay closed. A little higher, and Qin Song would touch something intimate.

Her nightdress was slowly tugged upward to her collarbone. A corner of it was pushed between her lips, forcing her to bite down, a scene strangely familiar.

A tongue traced her scar at the collarbone. Li Chu’s chest rose and fell as the next moment, her buttons were undone one by one with teeth.

After finishing, Qin Song hooked something from the counter and began running it against Li Chu’s body. The ribbon-like touch stroked her bare skin, igniting restless heat.

Li Chu’s thighs squeezed together, shivering each time Qin Song’s hand brushed past.

After a while, Qin Song removed the ribbon covering her eyes and smiled faintly, satisfied: “Lower your head.”

Li Chu’s hands were bound behind her, entwined with the pink ribbon. In fact, her entire body was wrapped in it—everywhere but the softest places—making her look like the strawberry cake from Qin Song’s birthday.

A gift, exquisitely presented.

Qin Song circled her arms around, tilting her head to examine her, before finally leaning in. She was tall—Li Chu always had to look up at her, and now even more so.

As the dress slipped back down, covering the pink ties, Qin Song calmly lifted the fabric again. “Bite it.”

Li Chu obeyed. With her hands bound, she could only clutch the hem with her mouth—like a present given to Qin Song, one she refused to unwrap just yet.

This was a tattoo shop, yet behind the locked doors they hid their unspeakable secret, indulging to the fullest.

Sweat quickly soaked through Li Chu’s ribbon, staining it darker. Her wet lashes clung together, tears slipping down instinctively. Just as she lowered her gaze, Qin Song’s kiss fell, along with her touch.

Li Chu had never imagined Qin Song would go this far, lowering herself until they were equals—mere mortals with each other.

“You… don’t…” Li Chu squirmed uncomfortably, only to realize how tightly she was bound. Just soft ribbon, yet it left her helpless, unable to move, at Qin Song’s mercy.

The tongue stud wasn’t cold anymore—it burned, a searing heat that surged upward, stealing her breath, forcing her lips open to release it.

She wanted to reach out and tangle her hands in Qin Song’s hair.

But now, she could only watch with teary eyes as pink strands brushed against her skin, tickling her flesh, boiling her blood.

She found herself in Qin Song’s palm, and when she could no longer resist, her body curled inward, sweat dripping into Qin Song’s collar.

The droplets slid along her collarbones like snowcapped ridges, circling the silver jewelry, where Li Chu could faintly see her own reflection—her face, her eyes. Endless waves of passion spilled into the damp fabric.

She bit the fabric, whimpering like a kitten, her eyes foggy with mist, torn between pleading and silence.

The emotions surged like a storm, blurring the lines of Qin Song’s palms.

Like the rain outside—the same way Li Chu had seen her earlier, reaching out to catch the falling drops, water sliding down her pale, veined hand until it finally fell from her elbow, leaving glistening traces behind.

That night, the storm drowned out the silence, drowned out Qin Song’s usual coldness.

Now, she was like the crescent moon after rain—its rising light enveloping the world.

Li Chu didn’t know if this moon belonged to her. But for one fleeting moment, its glow had indeed fallen upon her.

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