Flirting Recklessly With the White Moonlight Will Get You Marked - Chapter 9
9:
Yan Qingqiu’s face burned. How should she reply?
She couldn’t fathom it—Song Qingre, the canon white moonlight, aloof and unyielding, how had she become so… so…
Was there some misunderstanding?
She recalled the initial test questions:
Couple: Big Sister ****
Those asterisks were lethal.
Song Qingre didn’t follow up after her last message. Yan Qingqiu stared at her phone, thumb absently tapping the dimming screen. The glow illuminated her profile as she tossed and turned, lifting the device again.
Silence. That final exchange hung in the air, as if Yan Qingqiu truly had outdoor proclivities—or as if Song Qingre had thoroughly outmaneuvered her.
After agonizing, Yan Qingqiu opted to play dead. Lying in bed, even a glance at the messages made her squirm. This was the opposite of her original plan.
She’d meant to raise Song Qingre’s favorability. Now she’d cemented herself as a pervert in Song Qingre’s mind.
Ugh. What was I thinking?
Subsequent texts from Song Qingre went unanswered. Yan Qingqiu resolved to read without replying.
Song Qingre: Suddenly, I realize my resilience is remarkable. Qingqiu, thank you. I’m no longer myself, I’ve begun confronting my true desires.
Yan Qingqiu icily responded: We’re both alphas.
Subtext: Incompatible orientations. No bedroom harmony.
Song Qingre: Don’t spare me just because I’m an alpha.
Daily, Song Qingre sent scenic outdoor photos, never explicit but always probing—Do you like this view? as if urging an online romance to materialize.
Each reply made Yan Qingqiu want to slap herself. Eventually, she stopped responding altogether, hiding like a fugitive.
Once, she nearly collided with Song Qingre at the hotel restaurant. Spotting her during a hospital check-up, Yan Qingqiu bolted, ID in hand, nearly checking into a hospital bed to avoid the encounter.
Bored, she revisited the butler’s updates:
The moonlight waned, stars rising and falling in turn.
As usual, Miss Song arrived at dusk to tutor the young mistress. Recently, the master instructed closer supervision—daily doctor visits. Unnoticed, they’d turned eighteen: differentiation day.
They grew secretive, vanishing into shadows as if to escape notice. That particular day, Miss Song’s face was flushed, her usual ponytail down to veil her shoulders. The young mistress, shorter, stood on tiptoe to cover Miss Song’s neck. They dashed upstairs through the garden.
While bringing fruit, I witnessed an unforgettable scene.
The young mistress kept her promise, she didn’t steal a kiss on the lips. Instead, she pressed her mouth to Miss Song’s gland.
Miss Song lay sideways on the desk, eyes open toward the door. Awake yet motionless, lashes casting shadows, feigning ignorance of my presence even as their fingers interlaced, tightening.
Like white swans grooming each other’s feathers at love’s first bloom.
The young mistress lingered until Miss Song’s lips parted. Leaning close, she brushed her lips against a flushed cheek.
“Sister, I didn’t kiss your mouth.”
Miss Song blinked, candlelight halving the desk.
“Did you taste me? Sweet, right? I used strawberry balm today…”
“Mmm… sweet.”
I turned away then, knowing I shouldn’t watch further.
Because at that moment, Miss Song wanted to kiss her lips.
Yan Qingqiu reread the passage. Was this factual or the butler’s lyrical embellishment? It read like saccharine young love.
Damn it. My face is burning.
If this was true, why had “Yan Qingqiu” fallen for scumbag Fu Ye? Had the plot forcibly split them? Unacceptable!
Give me a happy ending!
—
On Saturday, the butler delivered fresh clothes to her hotel.
Dressing, she waffled: Should I attend Song Qingre’s exhibition? Her priority was survival, finish the mission and go home. Staying far from Song Qingre was safest.
In the car, she beckoned the butler. Seated diagonally across, he hesitated. “My memory has failed me lately. I’ve written little these days.”
Frowning, Yan Qingqiu radiated displeasure. The butler produced a single sheet. “Truly, miss. Drained dry.”
She took it, too self-conscious to read under his gaze. Folding it into her bag, she warned, “No more hiatuses, or I’ll dock your pay.” Gazing out the window, she yearned to ask why those two had drifted apart.
Arriving, she remained in the car.
What if stepping out triggers a plot point?
Yan Qingqiu: System, will today be safe?
System: Hmm?
She asked the butler, “Can we use the back entrance?”
“But you’re dressed so resplendently. Wouldn’t that be wasteful?”
Gritting her teeth, she glared. He added, “Are you avoiding Miss Song? Your silence reminds me of another incident—”
“—Out of the car!”
The butler promptly opened her door with such reverence that bystanders craned to see. Inside, a vision emerged: a princess dress with pearl straps, orange iridescence shimmering under sunlight. Gold hair framed porcelain skin, peach-blushed cheeks, and almond eyes—a living oil painting.
Even the butler preened.
Spotting Song Qingre by the entrance—black dress, elegant updo, conversing with a suited figure—Yan Qingqiu planned to slip past unnoticed.
Then a voice bellowed:
“Yan Qingqiu!”
She pursed her lips, pretending deafness.
“Qiu-bao! I see you!” The voice panted.
Qiu-bao? Who the hell, heat surged. No tact at all! Can’t you see I’m incognito?
But she knew: her “best friend,” Su Xingjie.
They hadn’t met since Yan Qingqiu ignored her messages. Now Su Xingjie sprinted over, skirts clutched.
Fine. Safety in numbers. With Su around, Song Qingre would behave.
“Qiu-bao! Why avoid me?”
Who’s your ‘bao’?! Distracted, Yan Qingqiu collided with something soft. An apology died as familiar citrus warmth enveloped her wrist.
Looking up, her nose flooded with pheromones—absent so long, her body reacted violently. Her waist buckled, legs giving way as she tumbled into Song Qingre’s arms.
The impact staggered Song Qingre in her heels. “Qingqiu, you’re so…”
Yan Qingqiu braced for walking into my trap. Instead, Song Qingre cooed, “Clumsy today, Qiu-bao?”
Ears on fire. Legs jelly.
Struggling upright only made her wobble worse, bumping into Song Qingre repeatedly until hands steadied her waist. Mortified, she met Song Qingre’s gaze—flushed, guilty, yet defiant:
“Not clumsy. Real alphas choose to throw themselves at people.”