Cross the Boundary GL - Chapter 46

“What?!”

Qin Zhao shot up to his feet. “Looking for what?”

“A psychiatrist.” Qin Song calmly repeated, her gaze following his movement, rippling slightly.

From her eyes, Qin Zhao read the truth of those words. His response was swift: “I’ll arrange it immediately.”

The woman said nothing. She lowered her head, habitually slipping her hand into her pocket, where her fingers brushed against the sharp edge of a photo. She paused, then spoke again in a soft, quiet voice: “Don’t tell her.”

And then she slipped away, silent as though she had never come at all.

That night, the wind howled fiercely. Leaves swirled up to half a man’s height in the streets. Around four or five in the morning, Li Chu was startled awake by the screech of the iron gate downstairs. In the hushed darkness, a heavy figure moved through the stairwell.

Her hair stood on end. She braced herself, voice trembling: “Who’s there?!”

Qin Song immediately nudged on the light with her elbow. She saw Li Chu barefoot on the stairs, hair soft and straight, her toes red with cold.

“It’s you…” The girl’s shoulders relaxed, and she let out a long sigh of relief. “Why didn’t you say something if you were coming so late?”

She walked closer, her warm palm gently cupping Qin Song’s cheek. “The weather’s turning cold. Was it freezing outside? Come in quickly.”

Qin Song didn’t move. Her pink hair was messy, bangs grown too long, half covering her eyes. She was never good at gentleness—her words carried no emotion: “Pack your things.”

The sudden remark left Li Chu dumbfounded. “Huh?”

Qin Song paused, reorganized her thoughts, and said coolly, “Go back inside. Pack your things—we’re moving.”

Her tone was light as a breeze, but Li Chu’s pupils widened. “M-Moving? Moving where?”

“Cheng’an. Not far, about three kilometers.”

“Wait, it’s not about near or far!” Li Chu flailed her hands in panic. “Cheng’an Apartments? If we go there, where will I live…?”

Qin Song stared at her silently. The weight of that gaze made Li Chu’s nerves spike. She asked cautiously, “Don’t tell me… it’s your place?”

By then, Qin Song had already opened the door and even dragged out her suitcase. She hooked an arm around it, urging, “Hurry.”

Li Chu scrambled to stuff things inside. Finally, staring at the sheets and blankets left behind, she hesitated. “Do we… bring these too?”

“No.” Qin Song pressed down the suitcase with her knee, movements quick and efficient. When everything was set, she had Li Chu pack valuables, leaving behind only odds and ends of furniture.

It wasn’t until they were in the car that Li Chu realized what was happening. Four in the morning, and Qin Song had made her move out overnight—why?

Cheng’an Apartments sat at the center of the city’s redevelopment zone. It was an upscale new complex, with extremely tight security—without a keycard, entry was impossible.

But Qin Song was easily recognized. The security guard took just one look and turned his head away, instead pointing at Li Chu. “This young lady needs to register.”

“Mm.” Qin Song took the pen and paper. “Put her in the system.”

The guard broke into a professional smile. “No problem. Just remember to go to the property office tomorrow to complete the registration.”

Inside the underground parking garage, Li Chu couldn’t hold back anymore. “What are you doing? What does this mean?”

Qin Song’s voice was cool. “Get out.”

“…Fine.” Li Chu, still full of questions, obediently followed her into the elevator. Watching the numbers rise, her heart twisted nervously, palms damp with sweat.

She didn’t know Qin Song’s exact income, but it had to be high. Each floor here had only two units, all designed with luxury in mind. Lin Zhiyan had once investigated—every resident in Cheng’an Apartments was wealthy.

Yet at Qin Song’s door, there wasn’t even a welcome mat. Everything was stripped-down and simple, the door painted pale gray, matching its owner perfectly.

The lock beeped twice, and Qin Song opened a narrow crack. Through it, Li Chu glimpsed the fluttering veil of gauzy curtains.

“Record your fingerprint,” Qin Song said, bracing one hand against the door.

Li Chu quickly looked away. Once the procedure was done, the door finally swung wide, revealing the place in full.

It was too clean. If not for Qin Song’s scent and belongings, Li Chu would’ve thought they were in a hotel. No—hotels weren’t even this immaculate.

This kind of extreme orderliness belonged only to Qin Song.

Li Chu’s unease deepened. Was this really okay? After all, when taken to the extreme, neatness became pathology.

“Sit.” Qin Song pulled out a chair, then pushed the suitcase in. “The shop’s under renovation. You’ll move in today, go register with property management tomorrow. Here’s the elevator card.”

She pulled a white card from her pocket and tossed it onto the coffee table. Then, calmly, she continued, “The washer and dryer are behind the small door next to the bathroom. The drying rack is fully automatic—the button’s by the light switch…”

The more Li Chu listened, the more wrong it felt. “Qin Song! What on earth are you trying to do?”

The little bunny angry was surprisingly entertaining—her brows furrowed, but her eyes remained soft. She wasn’t good at temper; even upset, she was gentle as water.

Qin Song chuckled. “Don’t want to live here?”

“That’s not it…” Li Chu’s hair was a tangled mess. “But you should at least give me a reason, right? This is too sudden…”

“A reason.” Qin Song’s brows arched faintly. “What reason.”

She shrugged off her jacket, tossing it over the chair. “You wanted intimacy. That should include living together. I don’t like long distance.”

Li Chu fell into stunned silence. Her round eyes brimmed with disbelief. Happiness had come too fast—like waiting in line forever for a roller coaster, only for the ride to shoot off the second the belt clicked.

“It’s not really that far…” she muttered weakly.

“Not much time left.” Light spilled across Qin Song’s face, softening her sharpness. Li Chu tilted her head, trying to catch her expression. “Not much time for what?”

The first glow of dawn warmed the corners of Qin Song’s eyes. Her face was calm. “Just get settled.”

The question went unanswered.

By the time they finished unpacking, daylight had fully broken. Qin Song showered first. Through the glass, Li Chu glimpsed her faint silhouette moving inside.

For once, Qin Song wore a simple camisole and shorts at home, half-covered tattoos peeking through the fabric.

Most of those designs were her own work. Li Chu’s heart skipped. There was an unspeakable sensuality in it, making her retreat nervously into the bathroom.

When she came out, Qin Song was seated on the sofa, laptop open, cigarette between her fingers, a steaming cup of milk beside the ashtray.

Li Chu hesitated before sitting down beside her. Qin Song didn’t look up, eyes still on the screen. One hand left the keyboard only to nudge the milk toward her.

The steam lingered between them, radiating silent tenderness.

In the cold, pristine apartment, Li Chu tasted for the first time the small but real warmth that a seemingly emotionless woman could give.

She was trying to change—Li Chu could feel it.

Unspoken shifts had accelerated their relationship, though Qin Song never said anything aloud. She expressed everything through action.

Thinking this, Li Chu sipped the milk. Bravery swelled. “So can you tell me now… why?”

“Too many questions.” Smoke curled around Qin Song’s face, softening her features—so at odds with her cold tone.

Li Chu’s gaze drifted to the pale, fragile back of her hand on the mouse. Veins and bones traced delicate lines, beautiful in their frailty.

“Do you love me?” she suddenly blurted.

Instant regret. For Qin Song to say “love” aloud was as impossible as snow in July—utterly unreal.

As expected, she merely cast her a cool glance. “Go to sleep.”

“I haven’t finished the milk.” Li Chu curled her legs on the sofa. “I’m not sleepy. You’re not sleeping either.”

“Working.” Qin Song’s tone was flat.

“Then I’ll keep you company.”

Immediately, the laptop snapped shut. The cup was taken from her hands. Li Chu’s damp hair stuck in messy strands between their bodies, wetting her collar.

“Not necessary.” Qin Song wound a strand of her hair around her finger. So close, she could feel the flutter of the other’s lashes against her breath.

Li Chu’s cheeks itched. She raised a hand—but before it touched her face, it was caught and pressed against the woman’s collarbone.

The skin there had already healed, feeling no different than usual.

The burn of touching an old wound—Li Chu knew it well, for she had felt it before. Memories rose again.

Where Qin Song had once left a mark, Li Chu’s fingers now brushed, damp and sticky, like the humid sky of the rainy season.

Her knees clamped together reflexively, or else Qin Song would have gone deeper.

“T-The window’s still open…” she stammered weakly. But Qin Song wasn’t swayed. Her body burned hot, though her fingertips, chilled by the night, were cool against Li Chu’s skin.

The mismatch jolted Li Chu briefly. But soon, familiar waves surged over her, drowning her resistance.

Pleasure arched her spine taut like a bow, like a bridge rising against the moon. Qin Song slipped through the gaps, lips tracing wet marks across skin and bone.

Emotions spilled out, scattered like pearls falling on jade, only to be swept away by her tongue.

Li Chu’s eyes reddened. Her voice rasped with torn cries, fingers clawing blindly—snagging threads, knocking over cups. Spilled milk scented the air, only to be licked away by Qin Song before she kissed her again, both their mouths rich with its taste.

Breathless, Li Chu’s chest rose and fell, soft curves trembling.

Dizzy from lack of oxygen, she couldn’t tell dream from reality. The light outside seemed blinding, like waves crashing mercilessly against the shore.

It took her a long time to recover. On the sofa, milk mingled with other traces, leaving only faint stains behind.

Qin Song pulled out tissues, ignoring the sofa, gripping Li Chu’s ankle, head lowering—only for her neck to be stopped by the girl’s leg.

“No,” Li Chu croaked, throat raw. “…I’ll go to bed. Right now.”

Easily prying her away, Qin Song pressed tissues to the tattooed skin, wiping slowly, gently.

Heat seeped through the paper. Li Chu shut her eyes, biting her lip until it flushed red.

Her body was no longer her own. Every nerve bowed to Qin Song’s touch, prisoner to her whim.

The tissues quickly turned useless, crumpled in Qin Song’s hand. She dropped them before Li Chu—a silent declaration of “victory.”

Li Chu hated her weakness. Yet at the same time, she was glad instinct outweighed reason.

So she gave in, sinking until sleepiness swallowed her whole.

Before drifting off, she dimly saw Qin Song packing clothes, shoes, daily items. She propped herself up, asking, “Business trip?”

Long silence. Then Qin Song came to her side. Her hands, tinged with a salty tang, combed through her hair.

“Take care of this place,” she said.

Quiet again. Only when Li Chu was half-asleep, barely clinging to her words, did Qin Song add softly: “Take care of yourself.”

The wind blew, swaying the tree shadows outside—half in darkness, half in light—until the blackout curtains fell, and all was dark.

Qin Song didn’t look back, as though leaving held no weight.

Only the photo in her pocket, crumpled beneath her grip, bore witness.

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