I Don't Want to Have Little Mushrooms with You - Chapter 44

Song Tai suspected her nose was playing tricks on her.

The scent flickered in and out of existence.

Before she could fully confirm it, it vanished completely, as if it had been a momentary hallucination.

Song Tai lowered her head, stubbornly sniffing at the back of Qu Lingyue’s neck, trying to recapture the scent. The soft tip of her nose brushed against Qu Lingyue’s slightly cool skin.

Qu Lingyue suddenly spoke, “Are you a puppy?”

Determined not to be outdone, Song Tai retorted, “You’re the dog.” Who had been nipping at her fingertip just moments ago?

Qu Lingyue didn’t deny it, and Song Tai thought she heard a soft chuckle.

So proud of being a dog? What kind of fetish is that?

Snapping back to reality, Song Tai frowned in annoyance, wondering what she had just been doing.

“You can put me down now,” she said.

She had already noticed people glancing in their direction from the shadows.

She could walk perfectly well on her own. Why was Qu Lingyue carrying her?

Yet, as if compelled by some strange impulse, she sniffed Qu Lingyue’s neck again, as if seeking confirmation.

A clean, neutral scent.

Only a faint trace of perfume lingered at her collar—a floral scent, completely different from the light, plant-like aroma Song Tai had smelled earlier.

She was now certain it had been a hallucination.

“It’s not like you have glands,” Song Tai muttered under her breath.

She assumed Qu Lingyue hadn’t heard, but the moment Qu Lingyue set her down, she suddenly turned, her brow furrowed in confusion. “What are glands?”

Song Tai froze.

“It’s… from this really popular ABO web novel,” she stammered, trying to brush it off. “You know, like scumbag alphas? Pheromones?”

Qu Lingyue’s expression remained puzzled.

Song Tai didn’t know how to explain it. How could she even describe such a thing? She awkwardly touched the tip of her nose and said tersely, “It’s just a world-building thing. There are six genders, and two women can get pregnant… something like that.”

Qu Lingyue’s gaze flickered briefly to Song Tai’s lower abdomen before quickly shifting away. She nodded earnestly, seeming to grasp the explanation.

“Then what about the glands and pheromones?” Qu Lingyue asked.

“The gland is at the back of the neck, and pheromones are like body odor, kind of like perfume,” Song Tai said vaguely, sounding a little unnatural.

She hadn’t thought much of these concepts when she was goofing off at work, but saying them out loud felt incredibly embarrassing and strange.

Ugh, why did I have to blurt that out?

But Qu Lingyue didn’t seem to notice her discomfort at all. Instead, she earnestly inquired, “So, can they reproduce and procreate solely through these pheromones? Do they reproduce through scent?”

Song Tai: “……”

How am I supposed to know? This is just the author’s made-up setting, okay? It’s not like it’s real!

“Anyway, that’s how it works. Okay, okay, no more questions!” Song Tai snapped, her frustration tinged with embarrassment.

Qu Lingyue smiled faintly. “I can smell your scent right now. It’s very… cute.”

Song Tai blinked in confusion.

What kind of description is that? I thought she’d describe the specific scent—whether it’s floral, sweet, like a particular flower, or like candy or something. Isn’t that how normal people would describe it?

What was Qu Lingyue up to?

Qu Lingyue gazed at her, repeating, “Very cute.”

Song Tai blushed under her intense stare. “Okay, that’s enough,” she said, trying to change the subject.

But Qu Lingyue persisted, finishing her thought: “If I were a mushroom, I would unfurl my gills, longing for thunder.”

What a bizarre metaphor! Who talks like that?

Song Tai didn’t even understand what she meant at first.

Then she suddenly remembered that day on the mountain, when they were recording sound samples. Song Tai had remarked that the sound of spores falling resembled thunder, and Qu Lingyue had replied:

“To you, it’s a delicate, silent sound. But to me, it’s like thunder, causing violent tremors in my world.”

Qu Lingyue must really like that metaphor.

So, what she meant was, if she were a mushroom, the scent of Song Tai would make her want to release her spores, right?

And spores, for mushrooms, are seeds—the means of reproduction.

So, to put it bluntly, Qu Lingyue was expressing…?

Song Tai looked at her, half-believing.

But Qu Lingyue had already averted her gaze.

The extremist fans had stayed at Qu Lingyue’s house for quite some time. Song Tai wondered if they had touched anything inside or planted something they shouldn’t have.

Song Tai had heard of cases where extremist fans bribed stagehands to put glue in a singer’s drink during a performance. The singer, unaware, drank it and nearly ruined their voice, almost losing their ability to speak altogether.

She had also heard of an actor who received a doll with steel needles hidden inside, deliberately coated with bl00d of unknown origin. Fortunately, it was discovered in time, averting a potentially catastrophic outcome.

Love turned to hate, love taken to its extreme transforming into bitter resentment.

Song Tai didn’t understand the origins of such intense emotions, but it was clear that this group posed a real danger.

Anxious, Song Tai cautiously scanned the room, careful not to touch anything. “Why don’t you check first to see if anything’s been disturbed?”

Qu Lingyue, however, remained remarkably calm, whether out of habit or indifference.

“The hard drive’s fine,” Qu Lingyue said, focusing solely on confirming the integrity of the hard drive stored in her drawer.

Qu Lingyue then went to check the other rooms for any signs of tampering.

Song Tai stayed in the living room to wait, unsure of Qu Lingyue’s home layout and not wanting to be a hindrance.

She initially considered sitting down, but hesitated, unsure if the furniture had been touched.

Her gaze drifted aimlessly over the room’s furnishings. There was nothing particularly remarkable; the decor was minimalist, almost excessively so.

The record player she’d seen last time still had a record on it. Song Tai felt a flicker of curiosity to play with it when she suddenly heard a noise from the elevator.

A lingering effect of the earlier incident made her instinctively assume the extremist fans had returned. Her heart leaped as she stood guard by the door, cautiously peering through the peephole.

The hallway was empty.

No one was there; it was likely just the elevator in operation.

Song Tai exhaled in relief.

But the next moment, her gaze froze.

During her previous visit, she’d been too preoccupied with Qu Fengyue’s situation to notice. Now, through Qu Lingyue’s peephole, she could see the entire opposite door—not just a sliver, but the whole thing.

Normally, one wouldn’t be able to see a neighbor’s door through a peephole; it would be a breach of privacy.

This meant that if Qu Lingyue wanted, she could observe Song Tai’s movements at any time without her knowledge.

The unsettling feeling of being watched left her with an inexplicable unease.

This apartment had been chosen by Qu Fengling because it was conveniently close to both their workplaces.

Since no neighbors had ever moved in, she had never given it a second thought.

But then she realized that she and Qu Fengling had only moved in three years ago, after they got married.

Yet in her memory, Qu Lingyue’s apartment had never undergone any renovations, meaning its current state predated their arrival.

It couldn’t be because of me, she thought.

Still, the blatant, voyeuristic angle made her deeply uncomfortable.

Just as she was about to continue observing, Qu Lingyue suddenly called out, “What are you looking at?”

Song Tai jumped in surprise. “Are you done packing?”

There wasn’t much to pack. Qu Lingyue always carried her documents with her, a habit ingrained from her frequent business trips between cities.

She hadn’t bothered packing any clothes, unsure if they had been tampered with.

Qu Lingyue nodded. “Hungry? Let’s grab something to eat first.”

Song Tai snapped back to reality, glanced at the time, and realized it was already afternoon. After giving their statements, they had long missed lunch. She temporarily suppressed her unease. “Okay.”

After their meal, Qu Lingyue insisted on finding a new place to stay.

It was a house registered under the band’s bassist, located quite a distance from the neighborhood.

By the time they arrived, dusk was already settling in.

Song Tai hadn’t expected to spend the entire day with Qu Lingyue due to a series of unexpected events.

She needed to hurry home. If Song Xuehe returned from work and didn’t find her, she would definitely call to check on her.

Qu Lingyue, seemingly oblivious to Song Tai’s urgency, interrupted her. “Listen to this,” she said, handing Song Tai a pair of headphones.

Song Tai was about to refuse when she recognized the device as the hard drive Qu Lingyue had retrieved from her home earlier. She nodded in confusion and reluctantly put on the headphones.

Music began to play—the intro to a song.

“This is what I promised you last time,” Qu Lingyue explained.

Song Tai remembered. Qu Lingyue had mentioned wanting her to be the first to hear her new song. Had it already been completed?

Assuming Qu Lingyue wanted her feedback, Song Tai said earnestly, “It’s good.”

The style was different from their previous work, a significant departure, yet it still captured the band’s unique essence.

But Song Tai wasn’t a professional. Qu Lingyue’s solemn demeanor made her feel insecure.

Did her opinion really matter?

Qu Lingyue chuckled softly. “Can you hear it?”

“Hear what?” Song Tai asked, puzzled.

“The sound of thunder,” Qu Lingyue replied.

So that’s what she was asking about.

After being mixed with other instruments, the song’s soundscape had become more complex and layered. Song Tai strained her ears, barely able to discern the thunderous rumble within the mix.

She removed her headphones and glanced at the time. “I should get going.”

“Leaving already? Can’t you stay a little longer?” Qu Lingyue’s amber eyes dimmed, the change clearly visible in the lamplight.

Song Tai wavered for a moment, but quickly shook her head. “No.”

What reason could Qu Lingyue possibly have for asking her to stay? They weren’t even close friends.

She had already done more than enough today, accompanying Qu Lingyue to the police station to file a report, helping her pack, and assisting with the move—far beyond what a kind neighbor would normally do.

What right does Qu Lingyue have to ask her to stay?

If it was about the kiss earlier, Song Tai had initiated it.

But they hadn’t explicitly discussed it, and there should have been an unspoken agreement to let the matter pass.

Song Tai reached for the door handle.

Suddenly, Qu Lingyue’s hand shot out.

Startled by the sudden movement, Song Tai flinched, thinking Qu Lingyue was trying to grab her.

But unexpectedly, Qu Lingyue switched off the light.

A crisp click echoed through the room.

The action was too swift; Song Tai was caught off guard. Her hand froze on the door handle as darkness enveloped her.

Qu Lingyue’s breathing immediately became ragged and rapid, bordering on frantic. She wrapped her arms around Song Tai from behind, pressing her face against her shoulder, as if seeking support. As if sensing Song Tai’s thoughts, she whispered, “Can you stay a little longer now?”