At two in the afternoon, the light was at its most languid and full.
Lan Yucheng “needed” an afternoon nap, which had become another unshakeable ritual. She always chose the not-so-spacious sofa in Su Yiyi’s living room, offering a vague yet irresistible reason.
“It smells of sunshine here,” she would say, “it’s more comforting than the bedroom.”
She would curl up, much like a young beast seeking shelter, and pull over the thin blanket Su Yiyi used every day.
On the blanket lingered the faint, clean scent of soap from Su Yiyi, mingled with the subtle warmth of sun-baked fabric. This sensation of being completely enveloped by the other’s presence felt like a silent invasion and a mark of possession.
Su Yiyi would draw the sheer curtains for her, softening the intense sunlight into a gentle haze.
Just as she prepared to quietly withdraw and attend to her own matters, Lan Yucheng’s “act” would begin.
At that moment, as if unconsciously, she would reach out and precisely grasp Su Yiyi’s wrist, just as it was about to retract.
Her fingertips, still warm from lying down, held an undeniable grip.
“Sister Yiyi…”
Lan Yucheng’s voice, thick with feigned sleepiness, was like melted honey—sticky and dependent. “Don’t go. Stay with me for a bit, just a little while… okay?”
This almost childish plea, combined with her eyes that appeared hazy and vulnerable in the dim light, was an irresistible spell for Su Yiyi.
She always softened, her trivial personal plans instantly cast aside.
She would carefully sit on the edge of the sofa. The position was uncomfortable, barely supporting her body, yet she welcomed it.
Her hand remained clasped by Lan Yucheng’s, the softest skin of her inner wrist pressing against the other’s slightly warm fingertips.
The sunlight, like a spilled cup of warm honey, enveloped them both. Lan Yucheng’s eyes were closed, her long lashes casting quiet shadows beneath them, her breathing steady, as if she had truly drifted into slumber.
Su Yiyi sat stiffly, afraid to move, fearing she might disturb this seemingly fragile tranquility.
She could distinctly feel the warmth of Lan Yucheng’s palm, and even the steady beat of her pulse, thudding rhythmically, as if tapping against her very heart.
Tiny dust motes drifted in the air; time itself seemed to slow its pace. This scene, serene and heartwarming, was like an old master’s oil painting, imbued with an almost sacred peace.
Lan Yucheng reveled in this feeling of being carefully guarded. The skin of Su Yiyi’s wrist was delicate, and its warmth seeped through their touching flesh, bringing a drowsy comfort.
She could hear Su Yiyi’s deliberately hushed breathing, careful not to disturb her, and could smell the unique scent of Su Yiyi, so close at hand.
A lazy, satiated comfort washed over her like a tide, threatening to completely dissolve her willpower.
‘To simply succumb, to sink into this state, wouldn’t be so bad…’ This gentle trap was one she had woven herself, yet it possessed a fatal allure.
However, just as her consciousness teetered on the brink of being swallowed by this warm swamp, a cold lightning bolt would always strike deep within her sea of consciousness.
A sharp voice shrieked, laced with mockery and discontent: ‘This isn’t her! This isn’t Xiao Xue!’
Xiao Xue…
The name itself was like a potent poison, instantly igniting a contrasting fire.
Qing Xinxue would never sit politely to the side like this! She would be like a wildfire, heedlessly squeezing onto this sofa, far too narrow for two, tightly entangling her with a scorching, possessive body, limbs intertwined, leaving no gap.
Xiao Xue’s embrace was suffocating, bringing the pain of nibbles and burning breaths. She would lick her earlobe, rub her collarbone with her teeth, confirming her presence in an almost violent manner, as if to meld their very flesh together.
It was a destructive, all-consuming passion, an abyss where pain and ecstasy intertwined.
In contrast, Su Yiyi’s companionship was so restrained, so cautious, like being separated by a transparent film.
This lukewarm tenderness, built upon guilt, now seemed so… insipid and powerless in Lan Yucheng’s comparison.
This realization was like an ice-tempered needle, precisely pricking her most sensitive nerve endings, bringing a sharp, clarifying pain.
It was this pain that allowed her to break free from the warm illusion, maintaining her cold calculation.
To intensify this stimulation, and to satisfy a certain twisted urge to test, Lan Yucheng would sometimes “move” in her “sleep.” She would unconsciously—of course, it was meticulously designed unconsciousness—pull Su Yiyi’s hand closer, letting it rest almost against her chest or beside her cheek.
Her fingertips would even subtly, almost imperceptibly, caress the most sensitive skin on Su Yiyi’s inner wrist, a touch as light as a feather, yet enough to provoke a delicate shiver.
Su Yiyi’s heart rate abruptly spiraled out of control. The touch on her wrist carried an ambiguous, teasing quality.
Lan Yucheng’s fingertips seemed to carry a faint electric current, raising a secret goosebump wherever they passed. She dared not move, her breathing quickened, and her cheeks flushed uncontrollably.
She could feel Lan Yucheng’s even breaths brush against the back of her hand—warm, moist, bringing an indescribable itch that reached deep into her heart.
It was a sweet torment; she was pinned in place, flustered by this seemingly unintentional intimacy, yet craving this strange closeness. She could only bite her lower lip tightly, forcing herself not to make a sound.
Though Lan Yucheng’s eyes were closed, she clearly perceived Su Yiyi’s panic from her instantly tensed muscles and disordered breathing.
This sense of controlling another’s emotions, and even their physical reactions, brought a nearly cruel delight.
‘Look,’ she thought, ‘I don’t even need to do anything; just this subtle, fleeting touch is enough to throw this guilt-ridden woman into disarray.’
Warm breaths intertwined, temperatures rose where their skin met, and the air was filled with sunshine, the scent of blanket fibers, and an indescribable, slowly fermenting ambiguity.
Lan Yucheng walked this dangerous edge, simultaneously drawing warmth from Su Yiyi while using the imagined, violent flames of Qing Xinxue’s love to burn herself, and to burn this unsuspecting, increasingly entangled “guardian” beside her.
The thorn named “Xiao Xue” caused her both pain and a morbid clarity, reminding her just how stimulating a hunting game this seemingly peaceful normalcy truly was.