Kitten eating grapes

The clatter of dishes rose and fell.

Xu Fengluan got her beloved lemon chicken wings, untainted by the earlier antics, though the cat circled her, drooling with envy.

As Liu Tingsong set down her bowl, Xu Fengluan said, “I’ll wash the dishes.”

Liu Tingsong paused, silent, her gaze lifting. Her eyes, once clouded with desire, were now clear and sharp.

“I think you need a shower first,” Xu Fengluan said, glancing at the cat climbing onto a stool, trying to burrow into her lap.

Liu Tingsong didn’t argue, heading to the bathroom, quieter than usual. Halfway there, Xu Fengluan’s voice drawled, “Hope you don’t forget your towel.”

Liu Tingsong stiffened, glaring back, annoyed.

Xu Fengluan looked down, feigning innocence, a bit guilty but unrepentant. From home to hospital, Liu Tingsong had teased her for so long—this was deserved.

Only when the shower started did Xu Fengluan gather the dishes, clean up, feed the cat, and head to the music room.

She remembered Ajin’s call. Despite her frustration, she wouldn’t ignore her fans or let them worry.

Glancing at her phone, the group chat had exploded past 99 messages, with multiple mentions of her.

It took scrolling to realize what they were discussing.

Ajin hadn’t just called her—she’d contacted the others, subtly badmouthing Xu Fengluan and threatening fewer gigs.

They brushed it off in the chat, unfazed.

Burning Meteor was different. Ji Lunan, focused on family, took fewer gigs, feeling relieved. Chu Cheng ran a bar, Kuang Ye a repair shop—only Xu Fengluan lived for music.

So what if Ajin schemed? Fewer gigs? They’d perform again in a year.

Xu Fengluan pursed her lips, not thrilled, feeling inexplicably stifled but unable to argue.

They were adults now—music wasn’t as pure as in youth; life demanded more.

Chu Cheng mentioned a mentor inviting them to S University’s centennial celebration to perform for students.

Funny—once troublemakers, now they were honorary alumni.

Xu Fengluan agreed, asking the others.

[You two free?]

Only she and Chu Cheng were S University grads, but Burning Meteor had used its practice rooms early on, owing a debt. The others agreed.

It was settled—just a heads-up to the company, whose contract allowed enough freedom, or they wouldn’t have played bars so often.

The chat ended. Xu Fengluan sent another message, urging them to practice and post videos.

It was a band tradition.

When they were less known, they’d sought exposure. Each got a video platform account—Chu Cheng and Kuang Ye played guitar or drums, Xu Fengluan sang or played bass, Ji Lunan showed off her piano, wife, and kid. They posted regularly; fans loved it, nagging for updates if they slacked.

Ajin’s mention reminded Xu Fengluan of this.

She shut her phone, lights flicking on with a snap.

Liu Tingsong’s music room was leagues better than Xu Fengluan’s “dog den.”

After a glance around, she shut out San Jin, who scratched the door, yowling.

Music soon played.

—

In a bustling mall, a notification pinged. Mo Dai, juggling bags and milk tea, froze, shoving her drink at a friend, yanking out her phone and earbuds, unlocking and diving into an app with practiced speed, lost in a video.

Her friend, startled, glanced at the screen and understood.

Mo Dai, a diehard Burning Meteor fan, looped every song, even covers, and pushed them on friends, who were used to her zeal and braced for another pitch.

But Mo Dai didn’t rave this time. She froze, her expression odd.

“What’s up?” her friend asked. “Not good?”

“How could it be bad?” Mo Dai snapped, but her face stayed complex.

“What, then…”

“It’s just…” Mo Dai hesitated, finally saying, “Something’s off.”

Her friend, curious, snatched an earbud, leaning into the screen.

The familiar voice was unmistakable—Burning Meteor’s bassist and lead singer.

No issue, right?

In the video, Xu Fengluan wore a loose white tee, her untrimmed white hair showing black roots, ends grazing her collarbone. Her sharp features softened, her usual defiance replaced by focus and calm. Her fingers pressed piano keys, her voice gentle.

The friend scratched her head. “What’s wrong? Your bassist’s playing piano?”

“A-Feng always could,” Mo Dai retorted.

“Then what…” The friend paused, shocked. “It’s a love song!”

She got it. “Your cool, brooding, ‘dreams and freedom’ singer who never does love songs is being all sappy?”

Mo Dai nodded heavily, at a loss.

The barrage of comments filled with question marks, all stunned by Xu Fengluan’s shift.

It was like… their singer had fallen in love during her absence!

Fans were horrified.

Xu Fengluan sang on, her tweaked melody less upbeat, deeply tender in her soft tone.

“Cause I don’t think I could get over you.”

“Said too many things I didn’t mean.”

“But you’re the one I never wanna lose.” @Infinite Good Stories, Exclusively at Jinjiang Literature City

Her profile glowed under the light, trembling lashes casting faint shadows, soft and gentle.

“It’s you every time.”

“I choose you every time.”

No one expected Xu Fengluan, silent amid the show’s viral finale and public buzz, to reappear like this, shedding her sharp edge for rare softness.

The comment section brimmed with confusion, questions about what she’d been through unanswered, pinned at the top amid speculation.

Most sank into her rare tender voice, even non-fans giving praise.

Unaware, Xu Fengluan practiced bass after posting. Instruments were unforgiving—days without practice left her stiff, like skin pulling at bone. She ground through it.

When her alarm rang, she blinked, set down the bass, sat back, and checked her phone.

The band was pestering her again.

Frowning, she started to nag them to practice and post, but froze at Chu Cheng’s message.

Chu Cheng had sent seven or eight screenshots of her video, circling faint red marks on her neck.

They hadn’t teased enough last time, and now they were at it again.

The marks had mostly faded, but Chu Cheng, with uncanny precision, zoomed in, pinpointing each one. @Infinite Good Stories, Exclusively at Jinjiang Literature City

Xu Fengluan’s ears burned, fuming. Usually the teaser, she was now caught, mocked repeatedly.

She couldn’t even argue back.

Before she could respond, Chu Cheng messaged again.

[Why so quiet? Early bedtime with Tingsong-jie?]

[Tonic time, huh? Teacher Xu, can we study cat backflips?]

[Cat crying.JPG]

[No nightlife for A-Feng, I worry. Nightlife for A-Feng, I’m lonely.]

[A-Feng, remember the Chengfeng CP by Daming Lake? Our sweet past?]

Xu Fengluan seethed, Chu Cheng getting bolder. She typed furiously, but Kuang Ye chimed in.

[Don’t mess around, or you’ll inspire Tingsong-jie to re-mark those spots.]

Ji Lunan: [Covering Zhaozhao’s eyes.]

Ji Lunan: [Tingsong-jie, aim for the neck’s center, don’t miss.]

Speechless, Xu Fengluan gritted her teeth, unable to retort.

With things this far, arguing was pointless. She stormed off to confront the other culprit, ready to settle old scores.

Footsteps echoed, stopping in the minimalist living room, lit by wall lamps. The one who’d scolded her for sitting on the carpet now lounged in her spot.

The shirt was swapped for a familiar dark green nightdress, her slightly fluffy dried hair loose, the back’s cutout revealing pale skin, her spine’s dimples clear. Her long legs curled, crossed, her back alone tantalizing.

Xu Fengluan, silent, watched from the shadows.

The cat toy’s bell jingled as San Jin pounced, failing to backflip, even grabbing the feather and kicking it in frustration.

Liu Tingsong waited patiently, resuming when it let go.

The fat cat’s temper flared and faded fast, chasing the toy again in seconds.

Xu Fengluan leaned against the wall, her earlier anger dissolving into rare calm.

Unaware, Liu Tingsong tried teaching the cat, which learned nothing, thinking she wanted to play longer, spinning like a top without flipping.

Giving up, Liu Tingsong hugged the cat, making it stand on its hind legs.

Xu Fengluan couldn’t see her face, only hearing her helpless, amused voice. “Dumb cat.”

“Meow,” it replied, maybe understanding.

“Stupid kitten.”

“Meow.”

“Learn to backflip, or she won’t want you.”

San Jin blinked, wagging its fluffy tail. “Meow.”

Growing impatient, it pawed at Liu Tingsong’s cat-ear headband—the one Xu Fengluan saw on the bed, resembling San Jin’s ears but bigger.

Likely worn to tease the cat.

Liu Tingsong pulled back, blocking its grab.

“Meow,” San Jin sulked.

“Meow,” Liu Tingsong mimicked.

San Jin froze, shocked, as if its owner had turned feline, staring at the ears, then her, incredulous.

“Meow?” it tested.

“Meow?” Liu Tingsong matched its tone perfectly.

“Meow meow?” San Jin reached again.

“Meow meow?” Liu Tingsong shook its paw.

They played happily.

Xu Fengluan laughed, drawing their attention. San Jin turned, meowing at her, either welcoming or pleading.

Liu Tingsong didn’t look, setting the cat down.

San Jin, clingy, scampered to Xu Fengluan, circling her legs.

She laughed, bending to scoop it up, carrying it to the living room before setting it down.

Liu Tingsong ignored her, sorting cat treats.

Used to tempt San Jin, they were now confiscated since it wouldn’t learn.

San Jin yowled, cozying up to her.

Xu Fengluan sat beside Liu Tingsong, watching.

Her expression was neutral, unreadable, until she finished storing the treats and looked at Xu Fengluan, voice calm. “Done practicing?”

“Mad?” Xu Fengluan tested.

“No,” Liu Tingsong shook her head. “Why would I be?”

As she spoke, the cat ears wobbled, looking as pitiful as San Jin denied treats.

Xu Fengluan chuckled, reaching out—one arm around her waist, the other under her knees, pulling her onto her lap.

Liu Tingsong didn’t resist, sitting across her thighs.

“What’s wrong?” Xu Fengluan rested her head on her shoulder, softening her voice. “Why’s my kitten unhappy?”

San Jin’s ears perked, thinking it was called.

Liu Tingsong looked down. “Tired? Shower and sleep.”

“No sleep,” Xu Fengluan shook her head, glancing aside. “Want grapes.”

Liu Tingsong, still upset from earlier, wasn’t comfortable. A long shower had barely cooled her desire, and even now, restrained, she wasn’t her usual gentle self.

“Big sister, I want grapes,” Xu Fengluan whined, humming when ignored.

“Haven’t had grapes in ages.”

Liu Tingsong pretended not to know about the hospital fruit feasts.

She glanced over, Xu Fengluan batting her eyes. Out-lazied, Liu Tingsong gave in, grabbing a grape from the coffee table.

Xu Fengluan opened her mouth, refusing to move, shameless.

Liu Tingsong pursed her lips.

What else could she do?

She fed her.

As Xu Fengluan bit the grape, Liu Tingsong pulled back, avoiding contact, but Xu Fengluan leaned in.

The purple grape brushed Liu Tingsong’s red lips.

Unhurried, Xu Fengluan played a game of cat and mouse, biting the grape against her lips.

Cool fruit crushed between them, faint sweetness lingering.

Liu Tingsong looked up, meeting playful jade eyes.

Unable to resist, her lips parted soon after.

She hooked Xu Fengluan’s neck, fingers grazing her bones.

Juice burst from the grape, sweet on her tongue, but Xu Fengluan’s bold bite stole her breath.

Her exposed back was covered by a hand, calloused from practice, each touch sparking shivers, a flush spreading like ink in water.

The nightdress rode up, her legs curling, toes sinking into the plush carpet.

The fruit was crushed, teeth brushing like shells, the cat ears steadying.

The window reflected the city’s lights, buildings tall, streets bustling. @Infinite Good Stories, Exclusively at Jinjiang Literature City

In a dim corner, they kissed, grape juice fading in the grind.

Xu Fengluan pulled back slowly, forehead against hers, voice husky. “I forgot—kittens can’t eat grapes.”

Liu Tingsong, silent, leaned to kiss again.

But Xu Fengluan dodged, denying her. “Goodnight.”

Gentle yet cruel, she ended the night with this kiss.

Liu Tingsong’s grip tightened, pressing closer, her earlier frustration replaced by insatiable longing.

“Bad thing,” she said.

“No goodnight.”

Then, softly, “Sweet dreams, baby.”