Chapter 50

This was Yan Qingqiu's first time posing as a model, and she was nervous. She sat in the hanging basket, silently asking Song Qingre with her eyes whether she should strike a pose for the painting.

Song Qingre said, "Do whatever you like."

Whatever she liked.

Then Yan Qingqiu...

Song Qingre's lips moved slightly, adding a few more words. "You can be a little sexier."

Yan Qingqiu nodded. She leaned back, wanting to open up completely, but she couldn't let go. What if one day "Miss Yan" came back and was shocked to find she'd been painted nude, and so provocatively at that...

She repented inwardly for a few seconds. Then, twisting her body, she watched Song Qingre's expression, a deep pink blush spreading across her cheeks. "I need something to cover myself."

Miss Yan liked Song Qingre, didn't she? She probably wouldn't mind.

She bit her lip, her eyes fixed on Song Qingre.

Direct, unsubtle, filled with fiery passion. Her longing made her eyes glisten, wet with desire.

Forget it, I'll be a little selfish.

She wrapped a sheer fabric around herself, holding onto a sliver of modesty.

Song Qingre asked, "Do you need me to teach you?"

Yan Qingqiu snapped back to reality. Before she could respond, Song Qingre walked over. Her shoe lightly tapped Yan Qingqiu's calf—a sensitive spot that stung faintly. Yan Qingqiu looked up at her, arms crossed over her chest.

Song Qingre nudged her legs apart, her fingers landing on Yan Qingqiu's back, massaging gently. Then she opened Yan Qingqiu up, revealing flower and leaf in full bloom...

Yan Qingqiu felt she possessed a wildly uninhibited beauty.

Song Qingre praised her. "Qiuqiu is the most beautiful model."

But you're the worst painter, Yan Qingqiu thought, recalling Song Qingre's earlier words—that she had painted a nude once, but because she couldn't restrain her own desire, she considered the painting vulgar...

But.

If the painter had to suppress their desires, how could the viewer feel the subject's desires?

Was she lying?

Yan Qingqiu hadn't understood art before, believing whatever Song Qingre said. Now that she understood a little, she felt Song Qingre loved to lie. Her gaze was so focused that when Song Qingre's brush touched the canvas, her own body tingled in response.

Song Qingre said nothing, but her eyes were alluring.

Are you cold?

Yes—even though the house was fully heated.

Yan Qingqiu had no experience. She didn't know how long a painting took. Sitting still for so long left her exhausted, and she desperately wanted to move.

Song Qingre took in her appearance. Yan Qingqiu's eyes kept darting around, her thoughts drifting. Her body went from relaxed to stiff, gradually losing its languid charm and becoming tense instead. Her skin tightened, revealing every detail.

"Tired?" Song Qingre asked.

"A little. Can I move?" Yan Qingqiu asked.

"Yes." Song Qingre nodded.

Yan Qingqiu tucked her legs into the basket. She had been sitting; now she shifted to lying down, swaying gently with the basket, covering herself with the blanket.

"This is the first time you've painted something so sexy, isn't it?" Yan Qingqiu knew she'd painted before, but wanted to know if it was of "her." She could have said it directly, but the words twisted into indirectness instead.

"No."

Yan Qingqiu waited for what came next, listening as Song Qingre said, "In college, the teachers would hire models for us to paint. I've painted many times." Meaning nude models.

"Oh, oh."

"Were they good to paint?"

Song Qingre answered honestly. "Yes, I could finish one in about two classes. The models were very professional."

Yan Qingqiu felt she wasn't very professional. She fidgeted, got shy, and couldn't show off her charm like a professional model.

Besides, she had an overwhelming feeling she couldn't escape, wanting Song Qingre to tease her, to kiss her sweetly. She craved an artist's kiss—how shameless.

The thought was shameful, embarrassing to even voice.

After sitting a while, she got tired again, so she sat up and leaned forward, picking the most comfortable position. She watched Song Qingre, studying her eyes, her lips.

When Song Qingre finally stopped painting, seemingly done, Yan Qingqiu thought she could get dressed. She reached for her clothes, but Song Qingre said, "Will you marry me?"

Yan Qingqiu froze. She hadn't expected that even after letting her paint her like this, she'd still bring up serious matters.

For her, that felt... a bit unfair.

Song Qingre looked at her, finishing the final stroke, gazing directly at her. Yan Qingqiu couldn't see what she'd been painted as, but she saw herself in Song Qingre's eyes.

Her skin was a delicate pink, like the petals of a rose.

She blinked, her body stiff.

"Qiuqiu..." Song Qingre called her name softly, her gaze gentle, asking, "Will you marry me?"

Yan Qingqiu stared at the ceiling, blinking. After a moment, her lashes lowered, and she dared not move.

Then she heard Song Qingre say again.

"I'll be good to you. I'll always be good to you."

Song Qingre's promise carried weight, but Yan Qingqiu wondered if she was even qualified to respond. Did she have the right to answer that question?

A moment later, she felt Song Qingre painting again, adding something new. Song Qingre painted with such delicate strokes that the brush seemed not to touch paper, but to glide across a human body.

Gently, it swept over her face, over every part of her body.

Soft, ticklish, impossible to evade.

She'd used Song Qingre's brush before, and it wasn't this soft—the tip was a bit hard.

Ah.

It was like she could feel something.

How embarrassing. They were so far apart, Song Qingre couldn't even touch her.

Finally, she felt Song Qingre stop.

Song Qingre didn't linger in the room. She packed up her things and left quietly—painting quietly, leaving quietly.

For some reason, a small memory surfaced in Yan Qingqiu's mind. Once, she'd said to Song Qingre, "See, my name is Yan Qingqiu, yours is Song Qingre. Do you know what that means?"

Song Qingre was sharp, guessing immediately. "They rhyme. Qing in Qingqiu and Qing in Qingre."

Yan Qingqiu hummed in agreement, then said mysteriously, "It means 'kiss, kiss.'"

Song Qingre was silent for a while, then licked her wet lips. "...That makes sense."

As she thought about it, her head throbbed. Yan Qingqiu felt something was off. What was this? Was this a memory from the original Miss Yan, or her own?

She steadied herself, taking deep breaths to appear normal, making sure the System didn't notice. What if it deleted this memory too?

She couldn't recall the specific scene or how she'd said those words, only that her mind kept repeating: kiss, kiss.

Yan Qingqiu's breathing grew heavy, the basket swaying with her movements. Her head spun. After a moment, she sat up and bent to pick up her clothes, hesitating, then chose to look at the painting first.

Her body was a rosy pink, the brushwork delicate and tender.

She looked in the mirror every day, but only now did she truly see how beautiful she was.

In the painting, she wasn't in a single pose; she sat, lay, leaned—every posture captured beautifully. She seemed to move within the frame, the canvas barely containing her spirit.

Artists were artists. They could paint so well.

Then she heard a sound.

She scrambled back to the basket, which let out a dull thud. The door opened, and Yan Qingqiu grabbed the basket's support bar with bare arms. It swayed, and she quickly pulled her hand back.

Song Qingre returned to her seat, and Yan Qingqiu swayed in the basket.

Neither said anything. To cross the line now would be like agreeing to something. Their desire burned, but they held it back fiercely.

Song Qingre picked up her clothes and draped them over her, then turned and left.

Yan Qingqiu lay in the basket, dazed, her hand pressed to her chest, heart pounding wildly. Song Qingre's words had struck her soul. She gave herself a score: fifty percent wondering whether to marry her, and the other fifty wondering what it meant to marry someone in this body.

As for that fifty percent wanting to marry, she didn't dare ask herself, afraid the answer would be too much to bear.

More than fifty percent of her fantasies would be overwhelming, full of desire.

She swayed in the basket for a while until she felt dizzy, then moved to the bed. She didn't lie down at once, but sat against the headboard for a long time, until she got a message from Su Xingjie.

Su Xingjie sent her several photos—outfits for tomorrow's shoot—asking which ones she liked, promising to bring them home after. Winter clothes were all on Su Xingjie.

Yan Qingqiu asked, 【Girl, how much?】

Su Xingjie: 【What I give you, no need to pay.】

Yan Qingqiu was just asking the price. She sent a stream of thanks, but couldn't help thinking of her former self.

Yan Qingqiu never wanted to talk about her work because she didn't even know what job it was. Every time she brought it up, it felt exhausting—draining to the point of misery, too wearying to even mention.

She found chicken soup for the soul nauseating. What was that garbage about suffering being a blessing, or people who endure hardship becoming rich?

No, no. Suffering only torments you until you're vomiting bile in the dead of night. Those who say such things have never truly suffered. Scratch them a little, and someone would coo, "Baby, let me put some ointment on it."

She'd always felt out of place in that world.

After college, she started as an online store salesperson, then became an ad designer for a shopping app, then a desk clerk with a decent salary. But within six months, the company downsized and she was laid off. She applied for a small shop assistant position, then started helping in a restaurant kitchen, dealing with unreasonable customers daily—complaining the table wasn't clean, or demanding she find them a seat or a table.

After many twists and turns, she landed a job at a bakery, working the register, occasionally making coffee or weaving a flower basket for the boss.

Sometimes people would say, "Why complain so much? You're a college graduate. At worst, you can find an easy job paying two or three thousand."

She wanted to argue.

She could.

But she had to pay rent and feed herself.

Think about it: two thousand three a month, after rent, utilities, food, and transportation—what was left? She had to take on grueling restaurant work that didn't require experience to earn three or four thousand.

She thought about studying for grad school, or civil service exams, then teaching as a contract teacher at a private school. But there was no gap for her to transition, no home that gave her space to chart a course. Life was life. Without money, she had to work herself to the bone.

She wasn't smart, either, not great at studying. She'd been at the top of her class in the orphanage school, but out in the world, she discovered there was always someone better.

She tried hard to take care of herself.

After graduating, she worked for years and saved thirty thousand. Her plan was to find a private school to teach at this summer, then settle down and later aim for a public school with a stable post.

Then she transmigrated into a game.

As for her looks, she looked exactly like Miss Yan... She was the kind of clean and pretty that others found refreshing. Her hair was a little yellow, like she'd dyed it under the sun, but not that golden-bright, expensive-looking shade.

Her father wasn't a skincare tycoon with daily creams and essences. She didn't get a million a month allowance—her monthly hundred came from donations, and her meals were free school lunches.

She didn't have Miss Yan's upbringing or wealth to support dressing up. Combined with childhood malnutrition, she was thin and scraggly. Once the princess's halo was removed, she was just an ordinary person.

She rarely made herself look nice.

Mostly because she was afraid. Living alone, if some pervert took an interest, her life could be ruined.

Sometimes she could tell which was her world and which was the game world, as clearly as distinguishing chocolate from hard candy.

She'd lived a truly miserable life in her original world, too miserable to bring up.

In college, to pay tuition, she sold clothes and delivered food. She sat at a bus stop under the blazing sun, crying because she'd used up her free school bus pass and had no money to recharge it.

She'd also done jobs people fantasized as easy and romantic—working at a milk tea shop, grinding beans in a café, labeling books with magnetic strips in a library.

Standing behind the register at a cat café or bakery wasn't the warm, cozy scene from TV or comics. It was just exhausting, day after day.

Her only dream was: I want to be a slacker. If not, please, let me not have a next life. Please, this world must obey science, so I don't get a next life. One lifetime is enough.

Song Qingre might not know how much those words—"I'll be good to you, I won't let you suffer"—affected her, enough to keep her up all night.

Looking back, she still felt a suffocating weariness.

She had a dream. In it, she was at the bakery register. A woman came in with a dog, and Yan Qingqiu pointed at the house rules, politely asking her not to bring the dog inside. The woman argued, saying her pet was harmless. Yan Qingqiu explained it was policy. No matter how she tried to reason with her, the woman wouldn't listen, and said indignantly, "If you'd just let me in earlier, I'd have bought my bread and left. Now I've argued with you for ten minutes, I'm not buying anything, and I'm going to file a complaint about you."

With that, the woman marched off, dog in tow. Yan Qingqiu's nose suddenly stung. She crouched behind the register, tears streaming uncontrollably. She kept wiping them away, feeling so aggrieved and sad. She didn't want anyone to see, so she forced the hurt down.

Just then, the bell jingled as another customer entered. She stood up, wiping her eyes haphazardly with her sleeve, and smiled at the newcomer. "Welcome..."

She paused mid-sentence. At the door stood a familiar face, but her throat tightened so much she couldn't get a word out.

Then she watched this person buy honey bread, two croissants, and grab two bottles of yogurt from the cooler. At the counter, they asked for a small woven basket.

They walked slowly, unhurriedly, passing through her world.

All her words were stuck in her throat. Her eyes followed the familiar figure, wet with unshed tears, but even as they got into a car and disappeared, she never dared to call out, didn't even speak their name. She didn't want to be recognized like this, so disheveled.

"...Welcome," Yan Qingqiu said to the next customer.

She bent over, sorting the change.

If the other person had known her, they would have responded to her welcome.

That day, the sky was grey and overcast. The store manager scolded her repeatedly, saying she was too rigid: "Do you think you're some rich miss? If you can't handle it, get lost. Nobody spoils you like your parents. What's wrong with you? Why not just let her buy it and leave?"

When Yan Qingqiu woke, her only thought was: If I'd let her buy it, you'd have checked the cameras and docked my pay.

Because she'd slept late and dreamt, Yan Qingqiu felt awful when she woke. She twisted and groaned in bed, unable to pinpoint what was wrong—just all-around discomfort.

Song Qingre knocked on the door, calling her down for breakfast.

She hummed in acknowledgment. A few seconds of silence, then: "Not feeling well?"

Yan Qingqiu gave one last groan before sitting up abruptly.

"Qiuqiu?"

"I'm fine. Just a bad dream. I'll be right up." Yan Qingqiu rubbed her chest, then got out of bed quickly. She grabbed clothes from the wardrobe and dressed, checking the mirror. Perhaps because of the nightmare, she didn't feel as pretty as usual.

She washed her face and applied moisturizer.

It reminded her of an old TV show: Painted Skin.

When done, she dabbed a bit of scented balm on her wrists, rubbed them together, then touched a little behind her ears.

The warmth released the fragrance, making her smell like she had pheromones.

This was from that time Wilderness gave her a batch. She capped it after use.

She sniffed, catching the scent of bergamot, then something creamy.

High-level omegas were said to have top, middle, and base notes, like perfume. Given her current development...

Could she find out what her pheromone scent was?

After finishing, she opened the door to find Song Qingre still standing there, as if she'd never left.

"Wh-what?"

"Just checking on you," Song Qingre said.

Yan Qingqiu's discomfort had passed.

"I'm fine."

"Then let's go down for breakfast." Song Qingre hummed, still touching her head to make sure she wasn't feverish. They exchanged a look, and Yan Qingqiu was nervous.

Song Qingre went down ahead of her, considerate. She didn't mention yesterday, but Yan Qingqiu's mind kept circling it—what did she mean?

Yesterday's painting... Yan Qingqiu slipped back into the room to check. It wasn't dry yet, and she couldn't cover it with cloth. If someone found it, how embarrassing would that be?

She went out and locked the door, about to call the maids downstairs, forbidding them from entering her room. But when Song Qingre reached the living room, she shut her mouth, went down, and called the butler over to tell him strictly that no maids were to enter.

The butler lowered his voice. "Miss, what have you been up to in your room again?"

What did he mean by "again"?

Yan Qingqiu said firmly, "Just don't, got it?"

The butler nodded, then said, "Miss smells very nice today."

"I put on some lotion," Yan Qingqiu said.

The butler smiled and had the maids serve breakfast.

Yan Qingqiu had work today, so she didn't dawdle after eating and prepared to head to the company. As she came out, she saw Song Qingre walking out, holding a painting frame in both hands.

Yan Qingqiu's eyes widened. She hurried over and whispered, "Why are you taking the painting?"

"I'm going to hang it in my office... It's beautiful," Song Qingre said with a smile, like someone showing off a treasure.

Yan Qingqiu panicked, trying to stop her. "No matter how good it is, you can't take it to the office! I don't want anyone seeing me naked. You can look at it in private!"

Song Qingre paused, then said, "This is the Fireworks you gave me..."

"Oh." Yan Qingqiu's face burned. She stopped, and Song Qingre put the painting in the car, opening the door. "I'll drive you to the company. I have something to tell you."

How could Yan Qingqiu get in her car now? She was a nervous wreck. Song Qingre held the door, winked at her, and said, "Come on."

"You're asking me."

Song Qingre nodded.

"Don't rush the marriage thing. Take your time," Song Qingre said gently. "I was nervous yesterday, too, so I didn't explain clearly."

Yan Qingqiu's gaze was bewildered, her anxiety freezing her expression. Song Qingre's voice remained tender—so tender it reminded Yan Qingqiu of the moment she'd transmigrated.

She got in and sat in the back. This time, Song Qingre didn't ask her to sit shotgun. She slipped into the driver's seat and explained that if Yan Qingqiu sat up front, she'd be too nervous to drive.

Yan Qingqiu was just as nervous.

It felt like in a flash—she'd been here such a short time, and now she was about to get married.

If this were really a game, she'd say without hesitation, "Sis, let's tie the knot!"

At the time, she hadn't known where things would lead, so she hadn't paid much attention to the details of the day she transmigrated.

Now, what stood out most was hacking at Fu Ye's neck—it was rock hard, so she'd used her shoe, then waved it off, saying she'd throw it away. The butler had whispered that it was a one-of-a-kind piece worth a million.

Oh, and another thing.

Song Qingre had written an address on a napkin: 88 Jinnan Street.

She'd been curious, and Song Qingre had smiled, saying, "I used to live there, right next door."

She'd been shocked—such a beautiful neighbor. What a blessing to have a childhood friend like that!

She still felt that way.

Yan Qingqiu thought she hadn't remembered much, but actually, as she recalled bit by bit, she hadn't forgotten anything.

She sat in the backseat, watching the wind outside, which whipped her cheeks—the bitter winter air like a rough blade scratching her skin. Soon her face was flushed red. Song Qingre glanced at her through the rearview mirror. "Roll up the window."

"Mm, okay." Yan Qingqiu snapped back.

Once she pulled her gaze from the window, she didn't know where to look. She wanted to look at Song Qingre, but didn't have the nerve.

Song Qingre kept glancing at her in the mirror, and Yan Qingqiu wondered if driving like that was dangerous. Then she told herself not to overthink it—Song Qingre was an experienced driver, very by the book.

Mm, if they got married, driving would be perfectly by the book.

Yan Qingqiu might have gone mad. Now, no matter what she thought, even something risqué, it always led back to marriage.

In forty minutes, she might have thought about marriage a hundred times.

"Qiuqiu."

"Huh?" She looked up, startled.

"We're here." Song Qingre turned her head.

Yan Qingqiu made an "oh" sound. She reached for the seatbelt, fumbling around before realizing she was in the back. She took a deep breath, but before she could get up, Song Qingre had already gotten out and opened the door for her. She ducked out, muttering a dry "Thanks."

Song Qingre didn't respond. Yan Qingqiu stood in front of her, at a loss, not knowing where to look.

Song Qingre walked in with her. Yan Qingqiu was inexplicably tense. She actually wanted to be alone to think—her heart was racing, and she needed time to work through the marriage thing from start to finish.

Soon, everyone passing by was staring at them, probably assuming she was treating Song Qingre like a maid again.

Song Qingre escorted her to her office and said softly, "I'll go talk to Su Xingjie for a bit. You head to your office."

"Ah? What do you need her for?"

Song Qingre didn't say. She went and knocked on Su Xingjie's office door while Yan Qingqiu watched from outside. Su Xingjie looked surprised to see her. She had just arrived and hadn't even sat down. "Is something wrong?"

"Mm, I'd like to discuss a collaboration."

"We don't have anything to collaborate on, do we?"

They talked inside, and Yan Qingqiu waited outside. Fu Sang's assistant came up at some point, and Yan Qingqiu tried to stop them from disturbing the two, but the assistant didn't listen and went to knock. Su Xingjie's secretary politely escorted them away.

Yan Qingqiu kept watching the office door. Ji Xiangsi handed her a cup of jasmine tea. "Want me to get you a chair?"

"Mm... no, thanks." Yan Qingqiu saw Song Qingre emerge. She lifted her eyes, a faint smile curling at the corners of her lips. Her voice was soft. "I'll head off, then. Call me if anything comes up."

Yan Qingqiu turned to Su Xingjie, who frowned for a moment, then nodded. Yan Qingqiu shifted her gaze back to Song Qingre.

Song Qingre didn't linger. She took the elevator alone and left. Yan Qingqiu didn't see her off, instead staring curiously at Su Xingjie. "What did she tell you?"

Yan Qingqiu was worried she'd mentioned the marriage.

Su Xingjie said, "She said she'd be a free art consultant for the Winter Show."

"That fits your art direction?"

"She's free," Su Xingjie said. "Free is free, no reason to refuse."

Of course, it wasn't only that. She'd mentioned that Yan Qingqiu's heat cycle was unstable and Fu Ye was keeping an eye on her. If something happened, it'd be trouble. They were both girls, and at a disadvantage against a high-level alpha. Having her around, a high-level alpha, was better.

Su Xingjie thought it made sense—so much sense that she felt Song Qingre was implying: "You two omegas might end up as a high-level alpha's meal."

Song Qingre hadn't said it outright, but she got the vibe. She narrowed her eyes at Yan Qingqiu, who felt her heart thumping.

"Are we going for the street shoot today?" Yan Qingqiu asked.

"Yeah, I already had my assistant pack up. I'll drive you over in a bit," Su Xingjie said, her gaze at Yan Qingqiu complicated.

Su Xingjie felt a pang of sadness. They were such good friends, and she hadn't told her.

After a moment, she reasoned with herself: Qiu Bao had been an alpha for over a decade; she probably couldn't accept it either.

She mulled it over, then looked at Yan Qingqiu with pity. Poor baby.

"What is it?" Yan Qingqiu grew even more confused, her guilt deepening.

"Let's go. Grab your bag. After the shoot, we'll probably eat out."

Yan Qingqiu packed up. Marriage was a big deal. She kept wanting to tell someone, to share, but she didn't have the guts.

After much deliberation, she decided it was best to keep it to herself.

The reason was simple: if she truly married Song Qingre, it was better to keep it secret, not let anyone know, because it could mess up the plot. If she'd misunderstood and Song Qingre was actually the villainess, the System would absolutely forbid her from marrying a villainess. It might force a divorce at best, but if it went after her life, she'd be doomed.

The two best friends, each holding their own secrets, sat together without saying much. When the assistant called, Su Xingjie patted her shoulder. "Let's go. Don't overthink it."

"Mm."

Yan Qingqiu slung her bag over her shoulder. Today's main task was shooting the new winter line—whoever looked best and generated the most buzz would set the trend.

"Oh, one more model will be shooting with you. Qiang Wei will guide you; she's done this style before."

"Okay!" Yan Qingqiu nodded.

They had eight people total, excluding their respective assistants.

The clothes were in the van behind. Yan Qingqiu rode with Su Xingjie.

As they got in the car, they bumped into Fu Sang, who cast a glance their way, a mocking look in her eyes.

Su Xingjie was about to say something, but Yan Qingqiu pushed her into the car. "Forget her. Work's more important."

At the shoot location, ER had secured the area. The other models were taking selfies, and the photographer was setting up lighting.

Su Xingjie had an assistant hold an umbrella for Yan Qingqiu, but she thought it was too much—there was no sun out, and it seemed too diva-like. Spotting a convenience store nearby, she said, "I'll go sit over there. Don't worry about me. Set up first."

"Alright."

Yan Qingqiu bought two coffees from the store, one for Su Xingjie and one for Qiang Wei. She sat on a small stool outside the shop, watching the sky—blue with sparse clouds that scattered in the wind.

She held her phone, alternating between checking messages and browsing the other's profile.

Song Qingre's avatar was old-fashioned—an autumn maple forest, golden leaves blanketing the ground. Yan Qingqiu guessed that, being sentimental, Song Qingre might have picked that avatar with Miss Yan's help.

Ah.

Yan Qingqiu thought to herself, I'm such a coward. She rested her phone on the table, glancing up at Su Xingjie several times, wanting to speak but staying silent.

She didn't know whom to tell, so she searched for a forum and posted her problem.

Title: Urgent: I have a nice neighbor who wants to use her marriage fund, and I'm being chased by my ex-fiancé, a creep. How can I help her and help myself?

A reply came fast: 【Get married!】

Yan Qingqiu: 【Anything else?】

Netizen: 【It's not up to you. Based on my years of reading novels, she'll scheme next. First, she'll bring you home and set your fingerprint, then say something cheesy like, "You won't need the password here anymore."】

Yan Qingqiu quickly replied: 【That's unlikely. She lives at my place! My door lock already has her iris scanned.】

Netizen: 【She'll give you bento, take you everywhere, hug you, and tease you nonstop. You won't escape.】

Yan Qingqiu: 【Yesterday after we painted, she didn't tease me much. And we don't sleep together anymore.】

For some reason, after she sent that, no one replied for a while. She kept bumping the thread.

Netizen: 【I typed out a long response, but after reading the OP's replies, I'm speechless.】

【Have kids. Respect, bless.】

【Shared link: "Name fortune-telling"】

Yan Qingqiu was baffled. What did that have to do with anything?

What was wrong with these people?!

She typed furiously, hoping someone could give her advice so she could decide. She kept the thread alive for a while.

Finally, someone replied: 【The person you like is a painter?】

Yan Qingqiu replied directly: 【Yes.】

The moment she sent it, she froze and looked for a delete button, only to find the forum had none. She gave up.

Netizen: 【Are you a model?】

Another: 【Secret code: Y*q, S*q?】

Out of nowhere, the thread blew up: 【The hottest painter x model couple right now is only Song Qingre and Yan Qingqiu. Plus, the OP's IP is in the capital.】

Yan Qingqiu was stunned. These netizens were too fast. Before she could find a solution, they'd already stripped her down to nothing...

"..." She almost cried.

She immediately reported the post for removal and set her phone aside. Looking up, she called to Su Xingjie, "Girl, when's my turn? Let me get in front of the camera."

If it went viral, she could claim she was working and had no time for forums.

Su Xingjie waved her over.

The street shoot was tiring. The wind messed up her hair repeatedly, and the stylist had to keep adjusting it. Between takes, she changed outfits, following the photographer's cues. She even shot a video when they had good results.

At noon, she took a break and let another model take over. She'd continue in the afternoon. Feeling hungry, she checked delivery apps but found nothing available. There seemed to be only one restaurant nearby, and she didn't know how it tasted.

As she was about to check the thread again, a message came in.

Song Qingre: 【I'm almost there. Bringing you food. The restaurant near your shoot is bad. I happened to be passing by, so I got you something.】

Yan Qingqiu's heart skipped, her cheeks flushing instantly.

What "passing by"? They'd chosen a remote location.

She glanced around, thinking how Song Qingre might not find the place, then stood up and spotted her walking over—wearing a black coat, carrying a bag.

Song Qingre was tall, 178 cm, in thick-heeled boots, matching the foreign models Su Xingjie had signed.

Her temperament was less wild than a model's, soft and gentle. She looked at Yan Qingqiu with a slight smile.

She set the bag on the table. Yan Qingqiu's mind was screaming: A love bento. She's scheming. She's desperate to marry me.

She was too embarrassed, not ready, her whole body sensitive.

Song Qingre opened the paper bag, revealing a large food container, still steaming. "Eat up. Your good friend and the others have some too."

Yan Qingqiu glanced over. Song Qingre's assistant handed a box to Su Xingjie, who looked over but didn't approach, using disposable chopsticks by the car door.

When opened, the box held shrimp—Yan Qingqiu's favorite. Song Qingre had peeled them with gloved hands. She added, "Yours is different from theirs."

Some word struck Yan Qingqiu. She didn't dare look at the love bento, setting down her chopsticks, and whispered, "Song Qingre, can I ask you something?"

A faint pain shot through her head—the game mechanism detecting she was about to reveal the plot, warning her to back off.

Song Qingre shielded her from the wind coming off the sea and said, "Go ahead."

Yan Qingqiu's vision was off. She was so nervous, seeing other people still working, feeling abnormal herself.

Despite the headache, she couldn't resist rebelling against the game, wanting to say so much to Song Qingre. "...If, one day, the world resets, and no one knows anyone, and people's souls and bodies no longer match..."

Song Qingre looked up at her. "You want me to find you at first glance?"

Yan Qingqiu didn't respond. Her mind warned her not to say nonsense, but her mouth couldn't help humming in agreement.

Song Qingre didn't answer directly; she began to think.

Yan Qingqiu stared at her, dazed. If there were two Yan Qingqius in the world, could you tell which one was me?

After a moment of silence, Song Qingre seemed to have found her answer. Looking at Yan Qingqiu seriously, she said, "Qiuqiu, the stories you tell—the what-ifs, the maybes, all those possibilities—are real to me, happening in another world. I never just listen and forget. I think seriously, what if this is real? Thinking about it makes me sad, so I don't answer. But I listen."

Yan Qingqiu couldn't distinguish what she felt now. It was like when she'd casually painted for Song Qingre, splattering colors randomly with no artistic merit, yet Song Qingre had seriously affirmed her, saying, "It's Fireworks. Brilliant fireworks."

Song Qingre looked at her, her voice growing softer, as if sharing a secret. "If you're not doing well in that other world, I'll ache for you. I'll be sad. Then I'll treat you a hundred times better."

Yan Qingqiu dared not speak.

Song Qingre, do you know? My plain, ordinary life, with you listening, is no longer so average.

Humans can't fall in love with artists. Even if they don't understand what the artist is saying, they're still moved by these incomprehensible declarations. Their words carry allure, but they're also a chasm that swallows people whole, and ordinary people willingly let themselves be consumed.

The dim light obscured her vision, blinding her into thinking the world contained only her. Even if she wanted to refuse, she had to admit: in this vast world, she was the only one she could hold onto.

Song Qingre picked up a shrimp and brought it to her lips. "You don't need to think about whether I can find you. Because if I don't find you, I'll keep looking, endlessly. I might not find you at first, but I won't give up. I'll search until I do."

A single shrimp sent her heart racing.

At this rate.

Yan Qingqiu knew clearly she might lose her reason, turning into something like the previous transmigrator—mindlessly becoming a dog for someone she loved.

Dear Miss Yan.

You've been gone for eight years. Would you still be as fervently infatuated with her as before?

My heart is racing now, burning hot.