I Don't Want to Have Little Mushrooms with You - Chapter 42

Song Tai closed her eyes, trying to steady her ragged breathing.

Dreams were inherently uncontrollable—the chaotic scenes, the disjointed narratives, and the illogical plots were all part of their nature.

But what troubled her was why she had been dreaming so frequently about Qu Lingyue lately.

Dreams themselves lacked logic, and she couldn’t control the characters or settings that appeared. Yet these dreams were, to some extent, subconscious expressions of her thoughts.

Song Tai instinctively reached down to touch her ankle.

Her mind automatically replayed the scene from her dream: icy, slender fingers gripping her ankle tightly, forcibly spreading her legs.

It was undeniably a humiliating position.

Everything about Song Tai lay bare under Qu Lingyue’s gaze.

She could clearly see Qu Lingyue’s every movement: how she had leisurely taken control of her, how she had stirred her desires, and how she had driven her to the brink of losing control.

Yet, as Qu Lingyue did all this, she whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Apologizing while…

Song Tai took a deep breath, forcing herself to stop reliving those scenes.

She kept dreaming about Qu Lingyue. Could it be that she had feelings for her?

She casually picked up her phone from the bedside table.

Several notifications popped up, all replies from Qu Chunjun sent an hour earlier to the video links Song Tai had shared with her the previous night.

Their sleep schedules were clearly out of sync. Qu Chunjun went to bed at least an hour earlier than her.

As a result, Qu Chunjun couldn’t reply to Song Tai’s late-night messages until she woke up the next morning.

Song Tai had grown accustomed to waking up to a screen filled with Qu Chunjun’s replies.

She swiped through the messages, noting how meticulously Qu Chunjun responded to each one.

Even a casually shared video of a kitten would receive a dedicated reply: “So cute.”

After replying to all of Song Tai’s messages from the previous night, Qu Chunjun would double-tap her profile picture to signal that she had finished.

Song Tai found this gesture utterly baffling, yet somehow endearing.

Combined with Qu Chunjun’s default profile picture—a generic gray silhouette—it made her seem like an elderly person desperately trying to keep up with modern trends and fit in with the younger generation.

A quick note: Qu Chunjun’s profile picture was the default gray-and-white silhouette of a person, which she had never changed. Chatting with her every day under that monochrome avatar felt like communicating with an internet relic.

The technological revolution had seemingly forgotten Qu Chunjun, the solitary old woman living deep in the mountains.

Sometimes, Song Tai couldn’t resist wanting to tease her about the outdated avatar.

Yet, strangely, it also seemed to fit Qu Chunjun’s character perfectly.

After reading her reply, Song Tai sent back a “poke” emoji.

Meanwhile, Qu Lingyue, who used to message her frequently, hadn’t sent a single message.

Scrolling up, Song Tai reviewed their previous chat history. It was mostly long messages sent unilaterally by Qu Lingyue.

But lately, Qu Lingyue had become as cold and distant as Qu Chunjun herself.

The realization struck her like a sudden epiphany.

No wonder she’d found Qu Lingyue acting strangely lately. Qu Lingyue had been behaving exactly like Qu Chunjun, as if infected by her icy demeanor. Both were chillingly aloof.

At times, Song Tai even felt as if they were the same person.

Or rather, beneath their different exteriors lay the same essential nature.

But how could that be? They were two completely independent individuals, living, breathing people with utterly different personalities. How could they possibly be the same?

It must be her imagination.

Yet the moment this thought surfaced, she froze.

Imagination. Another illusion.

She’d been using that word far too often lately, to the point where she couldn’t help but wonder if there was something wrong with her mind.

She shook her head gently, got out of bed, and went to the bathroom. Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she saw the lingering redness at the corners of her eyes from her recent escape from that dreamlike state, her pupils unfocused, as if veiled by a misty haze.

After a moment of clarity, she washed up and went downstairs for breakfast.

Song Xuehe had already left for work early, leaving only the housekeeper at home.

The housekeeper casually mentioned, “Cai Cai’s birthday is coming up soon, next month.”

Before she turned eighteen, Song Xuehe had always organized her birthday celebrations, inviting many friends and classmates to celebrate with her.

But after becoming an adult, Song Tai took charge. She didn’t want big parties, finding them exhausting, so she’d just invite a few friends for dinner or a trip.

Like last year, she struggled to recall.

She clearly remembered going to see the aurora with Chen Ling.

No, wait… it wasn’t Chen Ling. It was Qu Fengling.

Chen Ling had been away on a business trip at the time.

Song Tai suddenly felt disoriented about time.

How long had it been since Qu Fengling’s car accident?

She checked her calendar to confirm: three months.

Rubbing her temples, she couldn’t decide whether to marvel that only three months had passed or to lament that three months had already gone by.

So much had happened that her memories of Qu Fengling had grown hazy.

Swallowing a mouthful of congee, she suddenly realized she hadn’t been to that apartment in over a month.

Her last departure had been so abrupt that she hadn’t packed anything. She remembered Qu Fengling had kept two potted plants on the balcony; they must be withered by now.

It was a weekend. Song Tai glanced at her phone—nine in the morning.

About an hour later, Song Tai opened the apartment door for the first time in ages.

The stale air inside hit her like a wall, nearly knocking her off her feet.

In the month since her last visit, and with no one hired to clean, a thin layer of dust had settled over everything. Though not visibly dirty, the apartment was uninhabitable without a thorough cleaning.

The air carried a faint, dusty scent.

Song Tai waved her hand in front of her nose.

She wandered through the house, realizing she had rushed here without thinking. Now she regretted coming; it seemed pointless. She should have called someone to clean first.

After a quick survey, her gaze landed on the door of one room.

The study had always been Qu Fengling’s domain. Song Tai rarely used it and seldom entered. Though Qu Fengling was mild-tempered and never mentioned it, Song Tai had tacitly accepted it as her mother’s territory, never venturing in uninvited.

Perhaps it’s a habit from childhood? Song Tai mused.

The study had been her mother’s workspace, and she had been forbidden from entering. But at eight or nine, driven by curiosity, she had once sneaked in. She caught Song Xuehe reprimanding a subordinate, her face cold and severe. Having never seen her mother so fierce, Song Tai had been terrified.

Later, as she grew older, she suspected Song Xuehe’s reasons for keeping her out of the study were twofold: first, to avoid work interruptions, and second, to shield her from that harsh, unforgiving side of her mother’s nature.

After that, Song Tai never dared to enter Song Xuehe’s study again.

Over time, it became a habit. Though the study existed, she preferred the living room or bedroom, where the atmosphere was more comfortable.

Now, suddenly remembering, she realized she had cleared out all of Qu Fengling’s belongings from the house, but the study had remained tightly shut, and she had rarely entered it. Subconsciously, she had overlooked the room and forgotten to clean it.

It must be covered in dust by now.

Hesitantly, she approached the door, gripped the handle, and was about to open it when the doorbell rang, startling her back to reality.

She released the handle, abandoning her attempt to open the door for now, and walked to the entryway to peer through the peephole. To her surprise, it was Qu Lingyue.

Qu Lingyue had actually changed her ways, pressing the doorbell instead of knocking.

It seemed Qu Lingyue had been staying here recently. Well, it was a safe place, after all.

She had known Qu Lingyue wouldn’t be homeless.

She had been lying to her all along.

Song Tai cautiously gripped the door handle, opened it slightly, and asked without letting Qu Lingyue in, “What do you want?”

Qu Lingyue smiled at her. “I just saw you come over, so…”

This sounded like something Qu Lingyue would say, but her tone was surprisingly flat, making her sound not frivolous but rather serious, even sincere.

It was as if she were simply a neighbor checking on Song Tai.

Song Tai: “……”

Song Tai: “So, there’s nothing wrong?”

Qu Lingyue smiled again, about to say something, when she suddenly turned her head sharply toward the elevator. She swiftly stepped inside, wrapped an arm around Song Tai’s waist, and slammed the door shut behind them.

Startled, Song Tai thought Qu Lingyue’s old habits were resurfacing and was about to call out her name.

“Shh, someone’s coming,” Qu Lingyue whispered, stopping her from speaking.

Her icy fingers clamped over Song Tai’s mouth and nose, sending shivers down her spine.

Qu Lingyue’s long, slender fingers nearly covered half of Song Tai’s face.

Song Tai’s breath caught in her throat. This forceful, almost coercive action instantly brought back the dream she’d had that morning—those same cold hands gripping her ankles, pushing upward, ruthlessly forcing her legs apart…

Just as Song Tai tried to pull away, Qu Lingyue gestured for her to look through the electronic peephole screen at the situation outside.

Song Tai’s struggles ceased.

Qu Lingyue hadn’t lied. Two or three unfamiliar figures were indeed lingering outside her door.

“The building management warned me yesterday that some people had been loitering on this floor,” Qu Lingyue said. “They’re probably here for me.”

Those extremist fans, Song Tai suddenly remembered the messages she had seen earlier.

They actually came to her door.

Qu Lingyue voluntarily released her, taking a step back.

At that moment, the muffled voices of the people outside drifted in.

“…Doesn’t seem to be home.”

“Perfect opportunity… Let’s go in and take a look.”

“Is it this apartment or the one across the hall?”

“Not sure… Let’s check this one first. If not, we’ll try the other one…”

As the voices faded, Song Tai watched on the screen as the figures pulled out thin, bank card-like cards from their bags.

The rest of their actions were obscured, as the peephole’s view only extended to Qu Lingyue’s doorstep.

But through the door, Song Tai could hear the electronic lock on Qu Lingyue’s door beep rapidly.

They must have used the card to open the door and get inside.

The screen now showed no figures.

Song Tai jumped in fright.

She and Qu Fengling had lived here for three years, always believing the place was relatively safe. But now, not only had these people bypassed the community’s security and access controls, found Qu Lingyue’s exact address, and come to her door, they had even managed to open it.

She stared at the screen in shock, a cold sweat creeping down her spine.

Sensing her tension, Qu Lingyue reassured her, “It’s okay. They’ll probably leave quickly once they realize I’m not home.”

Song Tai lowered her voice, still shaken even though it wasn’t happening to her. “We should call the police first.”

“Do you have security cameras at home? If not, I remember our doorbell has a recording function. We can use that as evidence later.” She had been too rushed during her last visit to Qu Lingyue’s apartment to pay attention to the layout.

Qu Lingyue hummed softly in agreement.

“And do you have any valuables at home…?” Song Tai’s words caught in her throat.

Qu Lingyue lowered her head slightly, gazing at her. Beneath her long lashes, those hazel eyes reflected Song Tai’s image perfectly.

Their breaths mingled, so close they could see the fine down on each other’s faces.

So close that just a slight lean forward, just a slight dip of Qu Lingyue’s head, and they would…

Qu Lingyue’s arm, wrapped tightly around Song Tai’s waist, pressed against her skin through the thin early summer fabric. The icy chill of her body radiated a powerful presence, stimulating Song Tai’s waist. This coldness seemed to infect her, making her shiver involuntarily.

Song Tai froze, suddenly forgetting what she was about to say.

Qu Lingyue leaned in closer. “Continue.”

Qu Lingyue’s breath enveloped her, forming a warm, inescapable net with her gaze. Before Song Tai could react, she was completely ensnared.

For a moment, Song Tai’s heart seemed to slow. The sudden proximity sent a tingling electric current down her spine, making her tremble slightly.

She knew what Qu Lingyue wanted to do.

Before she could fully process it, Qu Lingyue lunged forward again.

The already negligible distance vanished in an instant.

Song Tai’s breath slowed, and Qu Lingyue’s movements seemed to play out in slow motion before her eyes.

She knew what Qu Lingyue was going to do.

After all, Qu Lingyue had a history of crossing boundaries with her.

So, she’s finally dropping the act again?

What surprised Song Tai was that she didn’t resist; she even felt a strange anticipation.

Her heart pounded fiercely, the force of each beat causing a faint ache in her chest.

But in the next moment, when their faces were nearly touching, Qu Lingyue suddenly turned her head away. Her icy lips brushed Song Tai’s cheek as she released her and stepped back.

“I’m sorry,” Qu Lingyue said with concern. “Did I scare you?”

Song Tai remained silent.

Qu Lingyue had already turned back to observe the situation outside the door. “It doesn’t look like they’ll be leaving anytime soon. They’ll probably stay for at least half an hour.”

“If they don’t find anything, they might try opening this door later…”

Song Tai didn’t quite hear her. She closed her eyes briefly, the physical aftereffects of the moment still lingering, a faint ringing in her ears.

Her fingers curled slightly. This feeling of anticipation suddenly dashed, or rather, this sense of self-delusion, made her head spin, clouding her judgment.

She spoke: “Qu Lingyue.”

Qu Lingyue turned to look at her again, about to ask what was wrong.

Song Tai rose slightly on her toes, pressed a hand against the back of Qu Lingyue’s neck, forced her head down, and kissed her forcefully.

Qu Lingyue seemed taken aback, freezing for a few seconds and simply allowing Song Tai to kiss her.

But she quickly recovered, cupping Song Tai’s cheeks in her hands and pressing down hard and urgently on her lips, invading almost recklessly and entwining her tongue like a ravenous bite.