Why Does The "Fishing Queen" Always Flirt With Me? - Chapter 26.1

Tang Wangyue’s eyes, already far from innocent, were now filled with a turbulent desire.

Kiss her?

She desperately wanted to lean in—to punish Yun Chuxian, even, and let this woman know that teasing her came with a price. But what happened after the kiss? What was their relationship? Marriage? She wasn’t ready for that.

Seeing her silence, Chuxian leaned closer, her voice trailing off provocatively. “Are you really treating me as the King, or do you just not dare to kiss me?”

Wangyue stiffened. “I’m not.”

Having her thoughts read so easily, she tried to step back, but Chuxian possessed a surprising strength. She grabbed Wangyue’s hand, pinned her against the sofa in a “kabedon” move, and held her hand high above her head.

Chuxian had been training hard for this role; her action scenes weren’t just for show. But more than that, Wangyue didn’t want to resist—or rather, she couldn’t resist the woman pressing down on her.

They say don’t listen to what a person says, look at what they do. Chuxian’s words were bold, but her actions were bolder. Wangyue felt like a little white rabbit being toyed with in the palm of a hunter’s hand. She couldn’t escape; she couldn’t leave.

“No?” Chuxian pressed closer again, their lips less than a finger’s width apart. “If you just lean forward a tiny bit, you can kiss me.”

The beguiling voice echoed in Wangyue’s ear. Like a siren, the woman made Wangyue’s heart itch with restlessness. Wangyue lowered her gaze to those red lips, two thoughts warring in her mind. One: Just kiss her. It’s Chuxian’s fault anyway, what am I afraid of? The other: Have I really thought this through? Can I take responsibility?

If she kissed her, she had to be responsible for Chuxian. But Chuxian wasn’t asking for responsibility. Right now, they weren’t even officially “ambiguous”—at most, Chuxian was being ambiguous with her. And ambiguity was the most fragile state of all. It could end on a whim, at the slightest breeze. Wangyue was terrified of starting a relationship that had no guarantee.

Ambiguity is the spark that ignites a romance, but what about ambiguity with no future? Wangyue remembered Chuxian calling her “old-fashioned.” What was the alternative? Just a “friends-with-benefits” situation? She couldn’t accept that.

Wangyue knew she wasn’t an emotionally volatile person. To outsiders, she was indifferent and disliked socializing. That didn’t mean she couldn’t do it; she was perfectly capable of living independently and communicating. Not showing her emotions was her way of protecting herself.

She stared at Chuxian’s lips and hesitated. To kiss her was to officially enter that state of ambiguity. Could she handle it? No. She would fall in love with Chuxian. And once she fell in love, she wouldn’t allow their relationship to remain vague. She would move closer, piece by piece, demanding a name for what they had.

If you provoke me, don’t think about escaping.

Wangyue looked up, her eyes meeting Chuxian’s. The woman’s eyes were full of tenderness and encouragement—like a mother encouraging a child to take its first steps, she was encouraging the kiss.

If I fall in love, then so be it.

Wangyue’s heart shifted. She tilted her head to close the distance. Her eyes were still open when the warm, soft body suddenly pulled away.

“Yue, let’s continue.”

Continue what?

The sudden shift in atmosphere left Wangyue dazed. She squeezed her eyes shut. Was she doing that on purpose, or was it an accident? Just as she had made up her mind, the distance had been restored. The warmth vanished, replaced by a sudden chill.

Wangyue’s heart trembled. She silently picked up the script. “Thank you for the lesson, Teacher Yun. Let’s look at the script.”

She didn’t want to rehearse anymore today. Every time they did, the lines blurred. She was lost in a haze, the rhythm entirely controlled by Chuxian. She truly felt like she was being trained.

But why did Chuxian pull away the moment she decided to move closer? Wangyue couldn’t understand it, not even when it came time to film their first official scene together.

As the lead, Chuxian’s schedule was packed. Every extra day of filming was a massive expense. Wangyue, usually busy with the B-unit, had already finished her solo scenes under Mo Lai’s watchful eye. But her scenes with Chuxian had to be filmed eventually. The Director decided to get them out of the way so Wangyue could focus on her writing duties.

On set, Wangyue was still harboring a bit of resentment over that night’s sudden coldness. Afterward, they had discussed the script harmoniously, but no one moved close again, as if the previous tension had been a hallucination. The more Chuxian acted like it was nothing, the more a frustrated anger grew in Wangyue’s chest. She had a temper, but she had no right to question her, so it just simmered.

In the days that followed, Chuxian didn’t ask her to go over the script, and Wangyue didn’t offer. It was as if the promise of “lessons” had been a casual remark. If she wanted progress, it was technically her turn to be proactive. But she wasn’t used to it. She was used to being swept along by Chuxian’s initiative.

Was she angry that Chuxian could turn the charm on and off so easily? Or was she angry at her own cowardice?

Wangyue didn’t have many friends, but the ones she had were for life. She didn’t like making new ones; she usually hid in a corner, waiting for someone to discover her. She was like a stray dog on the side of the road, waiting for another dog to play with. When night fell and everyone went home, she was the only one left curled up on the curb.

A friend once told her she needed a “home invasion” kind of love. She had replied that it sounded like a crime. The friend rolled her eyes and explained: a love where the other person invades your space so thoroughly you can’t run away until you fall for them. She hadn’t believed it then. Who would love someone like that?

But after meeting Chuxian, she began to understand. She didn’t like the term, but she understood the concept: a love where, no matter how much you retreat, the other person gives you enough courage and confidence to stay.

But how often does that actually happen? And for many, if there’s no attraction, that behavior is just harassment. When Chuxian approached her and teased her, did she hate it or love it? When she retreated, did she want the silence or did she crave for Chuxian to keep coming? Wangyue knew the answer.

Today, Wangyue was staying with the A-unit all day. It was her first time watching Chuxian work for a full day—and she was acting, too. The Director had trimmed some of Xia Liang’s minor scenes, keeping only the high-impact ones and a few where he silently followed the Princess.

“Miss Yun.”

“Morning, Miss Yun.”

The greetings snapped Wangyue out of her thoughts. She looked over, and for a moment, it felt like a lifetime had passed in a single glance.

As Xia Liang, Wangyue’s character had a devotion to the Princess that bordered on obsession. Xia Liang would kill anyone who approached the Princess with ill intent. He would sacrifice everything, including his life, to see her succeed. Obsessive, singular, and mad.

When Mo Lai filmed Xia Liang’s final scene with the enemy King, she said Wangyue did a great job. Wangyue didn’t mention that Chuxian had coached her on it. Even though the rehearsal had turned “adulterated” at the end, the actor playing the King wasn’t Chuxian, so she had finished the scene professionally. She wasn’t a natural, but for a newcomer, she was doing well. Mo Lai even said she was better than some lead actors. Wangyue had to shush her; such talk could get Mo Lai in trouble.

Tang Wangyue knew her acting was just “decent,” but the high-stakes nature of the scene provided the “highlight” for her. More importantly, Chuxian was a good teacher. If she ever retired, she’d have a successful career running an acting school.

Wangyue looked down. Today’s scene was one Chuxian hadn’t coached her on yet. She couldn’t deny the small spark of desire in her heart, though it wasn’t strong enough to make her act on it yet.

Her gaze fixed on Chuxian, who was dressed in the opulent robes of the Eldest Princess. She looked every bit a Queen—high and mighty, her gaze holding both the disdain of a ruler and the pity of a goddess. Everyone on set was stunned, then erupted in praise.

“God, Miss Yun could play Empress Wu Zetian.”

“She should play every regent princess and female power-player from now on.”

“The heroine literally walked out of the novel.”

Wangyue felt the surge of popularity. With Chuxian’s status, many people were reading the original novel now. It was getting a massive wave of new traffic, almost entirely thanks to Chuxian.

But there was one thing: the heroine in her book wasn’t quite this cold yet. In other words, Chuxian seemed to be in a bad mood today.

Coincidentally, today was the rescheduled fan support day. Chuxian had come out early to greet them. She smiled and spoke softly to her fans, as if the previous coldness had been a dream. It seemed she only turned icy when she looked at Wangyue.

Wait—is she angry with me?

Of course not. How could Chuxian be angry with her “little liar”? That night, when she saw Wangyue’s heart wavering and her about to kiss her, Chuxian’s own heart had been shaken. She didn’t want a kiss born of mere temptation; she wanted Wangyue’s heart, not just her body. If she only wanted her body, she would have accepted the “responsibility” talk long ago.

The reason she’d been cold the last few days was because filming was hectic, and she wanted to give Wangyue space to think—to decide if their closeness was just temporary temptation or true feelings.

The schedule was tight. Sun Ran was pushing the crew to their limits. With location shoots coming up, the workload was heavy. Chuxian was getting back to the hotel late—sometimes 11:00 or 12:00 PM. She’d had Bai Yu check if Wangyue was still awake, but the “little liar” was always asleep. She was doing double duty as a writer and actor; it was only natural she needed the rest.

But Chuxian wondered if the girl was overthinking things.

She purposefully walked past Wangyue, leaving behind a trail of cold rose scent, before heading to her fans. Wangyue didn’t follow. Chuxian stopped and turned. “Screenwriter Tang, could I trouble you to take a photo of us?”

Someone with a camera immediately hid it behind their back. Someone else, more observant, shoved their camera into Wangyue’s hands.

Tang Wangyue: “…”

Once Chuxian called someone’s name, everyone assumed that person was the only one for the job. Even if someone else was a better photographer, they wouldn’t step in.

Wangyue took the camera. “Alright, I’ll do it.” She had used cameras before and knew the best angles. When the lens focused on Chuxian, Wangyue’s expression softened. She wouldn’t pass up a chance to look at Chuxian’s face this closely. To her, this was Chuxian offering an olive branch. If she didn’t take it, they’d be in a stalemate forever.

Chuxian had indeed offered the branch. If Wangyue hadn’t taken it, she had other plans, but this was the simplest way to break the ice.

Wangyue studied Chuxian through the lens, looking for the perfect shot. A faint smile touched her lips. Chuxian smiled back, the tenderness in her eyes nearly overflowing. They didn’t say anything, but it felt like everything had been said. They were “good” again.

Wangyue snapped the photo and handed the camera to Chuxian. “Have a look.”

She didn’t realize how close she was. Their heads were nearly touching as they looked at the screen. They didn’t notice the many lenses now pointed at them, or the excited whispers of the crew.

“God, why are they so ship-able?”

“I’m shipping it. Hard.”

The voices were so loud Wangyue heard them. Her face turned bright red, like a cooked crab.

“Wow, Screenwriter Tang is shy!”

“But seriously, in terms of looks, they match perfectly.”

“Don’t talk nonsense, they might not even be like that.”

“Who cares? I’m shipping it anyway.”

Wangyue acted cold on the outside, but she could barely hide the secret joy in her heart. Chuxian heard the comments too and looked at Wangyue’s reaction. She was satisfied.

She checked the time on Bai Yu’s phone. If filming went well, they could leave early today.

Soon, Sun Ran walked over. “Clear the set! Prepare to film!”

The area was cleared, leaving only Chuxian and Wangyue in the center. Wangyue was familiar with the scene; she had practiced it many times in private. But in her mind, the Eldest Princess had always been Yun Chuxian.

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