I Don't Want to Have Little Mushrooms with You - Chapter 1

“Sister, may I have the honor of inviting you to watch a movie?”

As Song Tai had just taken her seat, she spotted a bouquet of roses placed at her workstation. A card was tucked into the deep green, dewy stems, bearing those very words.

The handwriting was rounded and somewhat blunt, yet neat and deliberate—clearly written with great care. The tone carried a mix of hesitation and palpable anticipation.

Song Tai hesitated before picking up the card.

The moment she did, eager, hopeful eyes immediately bore into her from behind. She didn’t need to turn around to know whose gaze it was.

Song Tai remembered her—a girl named Xiao Feng, an intern who had joined the team just half a month ago, fresh out of college this year.

She stood out for two reasons.

First, on Xiao Feng’s very first day at the company, Song Tai had been the one to guide her through the workflow.

Second, the girl had an undeniably adorable charm, with round, sweet black eyes.

And those very eyes were always fixed on Song Tai, brimming with longing and melancholy.

Xiao Feng probably thought Song Tai hadn’t noticed, but her emotions were far too transparent.

It was impossible for Song Tai to pretend she didn’t see it.

The moment Song Tai’s gaze landed on her, Xiao Feng would brighten like a puppy wagging its tail. The second she looked away, the girl would deflate, crestfallen.

Song Tai was all too familiar with this kind of attention—and she was used to it.

Call it vanity, call it self-awareness.

Song Tai was beautiful, and she had a reputation for being flirtatious and free-spirited.

Before marriage, she had cycled through girlfriends every three or four months, never staying attached for long. Even so, countless girls had thrown themselves at her like moths to a flame.

This Xiao Feng was pretty, with a clean, endearing aura—exactly Song Tai’s type. She wouldn’t have minded a fling.

But… right now, they were in an open office space, surrounded by colleagues. She could already feel curious glances drifting her way.

Song Tai’s slender fingers traced the edge of the card. Her thick lashes lowered slightly, her clear, delicate features tinged with a hint of melancholy.

Today, she wore a simple black dress that draped softly to her ankles. No accessories, save for a thin metallic belt that cinched her waist, accentuating its slenderness.

The outfit was understated—ordinary, even—yet carried just enough subtle allure to make people linger on her a second longer.

She pretended not to react, offering only a faint, helpless smile, as though mildly troubled but unwilling to hurt the sender. Tossing the flowers aside would be too harsh, accepting them too forward. So she simply set both the card and the bouquet to the side and returned to work.

Sure enough, the hopeful gaze behind her dimmed instantly, like a puppy’s drooping tail.

But no matter what, Song Tai wouldn’t accept those roses—not with so many eyes watching, intentionally or not.

The reason was simple.

Because Song Tai’s wife, Qu Fengling, had died in a car accident just last week. Counting the days, today marked exactly the seventh day since her passing.

The crash had been sudden—life and death unpredictable.

The departed were gone, but those left behind suffered the most.

For Song Tai, the loss of a deeply beloved wife must have been devastating. Her face had grown noticeably gaunt and pale, her thoughts often drifting, as though she were still drowning in the agony of her wife’s abrupt death.

After Song Tai returned to work following her wife’s funeral, her colleagues were careful not to mention anything related, afraid of reopening her wounds.

But contrary to what others thought, Song Tai didn’t feel much sorrow in her heart.

On the contrary, she even felt a sense of relief.

Because even if Qu Fengling hadn’t died in the car accident, she had already been planning to divorce her.

Their marriage had been the result of family pressure—they met through a blind date and married within just two months, hardly enough time to build any real emotional foundation.

Three years of marriage hadn’t deepened their bond; instead, it had left Song Tai increasingly frustrated.

As the novelty of their physical relationship completely faded, Song Tai finally reached her limit.

A week ago, she had formally brought up divorce with Qu Fengling.

Truthfully, Song Tai had wanted to end things half a year earlier, but each time, her mother, Song Xuehe, had caught wind of it and stopped her.

Because in her mother’s eyes, Qu Fengling was the perfect wife—gentle, tolerant, mature, and capable of enduring her bad temper.

And that was indeed the case. Over their three years together, though they lacked passion, they got along harmoniously, almost never arguing, appearing to outsiders as a model couple.

As for the loss of novelty—after three years of marriage, it was only natural for excitement to fade. But that wasn’t a valid reason for divorce. It would be irresponsible.

Song Xuehe couldn’t understand her daughter’s perspective.

So, over the issue of divorce, Song Tai and her mother had been at a standstill for a long time. This time, determined to go through with it, Song Tai had even braced herself for her mother’s fury.

But now, Qu Fengling was dead.

Divorce had turned into widowhood—different paths, but the same outcome.

Of course, Song Tai felt some sadness. After all, they had spent three years together. Even a pet would leave a mark on one’s heart.

But more than anything, she felt Qu Fengling’s death had come at just the right time, saving her a great deal of trouble.

Not only was she now free from the marriage without blame, but in the eyes of others, she was simply grieving the loss of a beloved spouse. Her mother wouldn’t stand in the way of her finding a new partner.

A triple win.

Sometimes, even Song Tai wondered if she was too cold-hearted.

…

After finishing her work, Song Tai picked up her phone and tapped into one of her message threads, typing lazily on the screen.

A few seconds later, the girl’s phone buzzed with a notification from Song Tai: “What movie?”

The girl looked up, peering over the heads of a few coworkers in the direction of Song Tai’s desk, clutching her phone in excitement as she hurriedly replied: “It’s ‘Eight Hundred Years of Passion.’”

When no response came after a few minutes, the girl held her phone tighter and added, feigning innocence: “It’s… a romance movie.”

Song Tai replied indifferently: “Got it.”

Neither an agreement nor a flat-out rejection—just a casual question, yet enough to leave the other person unsettled.

Confused, the girl spent the rest of the afternoon in restless anticipation, glancing at her phone repeatedly.

But Song Tai sent no further messages.

Only as the workday neared its end, after keeping her waiting long enough, did Song Tai finally tap her screen again under the girl’s hopeful, anxious gaze and send:

Then I’ll take the back row.

The girl’s previously dimmed eyes instantly brightened, her gaze darting excitedly toward Song Tai as if she were a puppy whose tail had just started wagging.

…

The girl was pretty and lively, talking incessantly, carrying the unique blend of youthful naivety and fervor.

She was the complete opposite of his recently deceased wife, Song Tai thought.

She hadn’t bought ordinary seats but had deliberately chosen the couple’s seating—a cautious, almost calculated move that wasn’t off-putting but rather endearingly innocent.

They sat in the back row. The entire theater was empty except for the two of them, the seats stretching out in hollow silence. No one would come to watch such a terrible movie after a long day at work.

—A fast-paced, cliché-ridden romance film with a hackneyed plot and terrible acting. The leads portrayed grief by staring wide-eyed while crying and happiness by flashing eight-toothed smiles.

Aside from the actors’ faces, there was nothing worth looking at.

Song Tai had no interest in the movie. She just wanted to get to the point.

She knew the girl beside her wasn’t interested either—because within just ten minutes of the film starting, the girl had already glanced at her twenty-six times under the dim theater lighting, each look tentative and careful.

Both of them knew exactly what was coming next.

Song Tai rested her chin on her hand, waiting, idly watching as the two protagonists on screen broke up and got back together four times in just twenty minutes, each separation and reunion accompanied by exaggerated heartbreak. A sincere question arose in her mind: Are they really that in love?

Wouldn’t it be better to just find someone else?

At the very least, Song Tai knew she would never let herself suffer so much over one person. She thrived on novelty—if one didn’t work out, she’d simply move on to the next.

Because of this, she had never stayed with the same person for more than half a year.

Qu Fengling was the exception. Their marriage had lasted three years—though it had been on the verge of collapse.

But… three years wasn’t exactly short.

For Song Tai, it was her longest relationship to date.

On screen, the female lead, cheeks flushed from crying, grabbed the other woman’s hand for the fifth time, gasping for breath as she begged for forgiveness.

Song Tai sighed softly.

Just as she was about to lose patience—

The girl curled her fingers, her face burning red, finally mustering the courage to lean in and whisper, “Sister… can I kiss you?”

Song Tai turned her head slightly, studying her in silence without answering.

The girl took it as rejection, her expression immediately falling. “I’m sorry, I thought—”

She had been sending flowers for a whole week. This was the first time Song Tai had accepted her invitation—she had taken it as a sign that Song Tai was willing to take things further.

Song Tai interrupted her. “Do you know how?”

The girl’s lips parted in surprise, letting out a small, bewildered sound before realizing what she meant. Her eyes grew damp, shining with both excitement and nervousness as she looked at Song Tai.

Song Tai’s gaze lowered slightly, lingering on her lips before meeting her eyes again.

Song Tai’s eyes were an imperfect crescent shape—intense when focused, yet always exuding a gentle warmth when half-lidded.

Now, those beautiful, tender eyes were fixed on her, carrying a hint of encouraging amusement.

It gave the girl courage.

A few seconds later, the girl carefully leaned in, fingers clenched tight, palms damp with nervous sweat.

Too shy to even look at her, she closed her eyes, lashes trembling, pressing forward with the determination of a soldier charging into battle—before quickly, eagerly licking Song Tai’s lips.

Like a puppy—pure, fervent, and utterly inexperienced.

The experience wasn’t half bad.

Song Tai found her utterly adorably naive. She shifted her posture, crossing her legs, her body tingling with desire.

The lipstick she had applied had smudged onto the girl’s lips.

Song Tai watched her, raising a hand to gently rub the corner of the girl’s mouth with her fingers.

The girl was unbearably nervous, instinctively licking her lower lip in response to the touch.

Grape-flavored.

Her gaze involuntarily dropped to Song Tai’s lips.

Song Tai’s lips were naturally beautiful—petal-like, with soft, rounded peaks and a plump lower lip that had a hint of fullness without being overly pouty. The lines of her lips were clean and straight, giving off an air of cool detachment when she wasn’t smiling.

Now, relaxed and watching the girl with a faint smile, she seemed to be patiently waiting for her next move, her palm lightly caressing the girl’s cheek.

As if anticipating her kiss.

The girl’s breath quickened as she stared at those lips, unconsciously leaning in closer.

But having already tasted them once, she wasn’t content with just a fleeting touch this time.

Suddenly, the girl straightened up, one hand gripping Song Tai’s wrist and pinning it above her head, the other firmly holding her waist, pressing her against the back of the seat.

Her tongue clumsily pushed past Song Tai’s lips, biting down in a reckless, inexperienced manner, driven by youthful fervor. The kiss was deep, rough, and unrefined.

The soft flesh of their lips was distorted by the girl’s clumsy urgency.

Song Tai casually wrapped an arm around her neck, initially matching her movements, even giving a reassuring squeeze to the back of her neck to ease her tension.

But soon, an odd itch rose in her throat, making it hard to breathe. Dazed, she looked at the girl in confusion.

Just then, the movie scene darkened. In the dim light, the girl stared at her with unnaturally dilated pupils, her round, innocent dark eyes brimming with excitement, the deep black irises ringed with a faint, shimmering blue.

A thick, suffocating possessiveness seemed to ooze from her gaze, almost tangible, dripping down and enveloping Song Tai without mercy, waiting for the right moment to devour her.

The fragmented dialogue from the movie suddenly amplified, crashing over her like a wave.

Light and shadow flickered before her eyes. Kissed too deeply, Song Tai gasped for air, her chest heaving violently. A strange sense of familiarity washed over her, her throat tightening with a choking, parched sensation.

Under the sluggish, gloomy lighting, the girl’s eyes dripped with that same sticky possessiveness, like slippery fungal threads invading her mouth, stealing her breath, rubbing against her skin with damp heat, trying to coil around her, strangle her, consume her…

It was Qu Fengling!

The girl’s gaze—so familiar—for a moment, was the spitting image of her deceased wife.

Her pupils contracted in terror. Panicked, she struggled, gasping for air as she shoved the girl away with all her strength.