Chapter 41: What Are You Doing?

She was crying so hard she could barely breathe, her words coming out in fits and starts, as if she might pass out at any moment.

“I’m never… never coming here again!”

“I’ll never talk to you! That’ll make you happy!”

She sat there, clutching that pile of clothes, crying like a pear blossom in the rain, pitiful enough to arouse affection.

These were all things Song Ning heard, since he couldn’t see her.

Song Ning hurriedly waved his hands, his face even more guilt-ridden, his heart growing more anxious.

Youyi’s health was already fragile. What if she cried herself into a faint? What would he do then?

If he weren’t trapped under the covers without pants, he’d have gotten up to hug Song Youyi, like when they were kids, pulling her into his arms and patting her on the back.

“It’s not like that, Youyi,” he said urgently. “Listen to your brother’s explanation. I didn’t mean it that way. Don’t be mad.”

“Brother just thinks you shouldn’t just take things…”

Before he could finish, the crying started up again in his ears, louder than before.

Then he felt a series of little fist strikes against his leg, tiny fists pounding against the blanket—once, twice, three times, not very hard.

Song Ning shrank back from the blows, pulling the blanket tighter around himself.

“Alright, alright,” he sighed helplessly, like he was coaxing a child. “It’s brother’s fault. Just… stop crying.”

He leaned against the headboard, tilting his face up toward that eternal darkness above, a sour ache in his heart.

One after another, why couldn’t they just be less troublesome?

Qi Chuyao was the type to take off running after pulling up her pants, his own sister was frail and prone to tears, Xia Ling was too hyperactive, and Xia Shuang was a silent log.

Scanning the women around him, only Qin Junyue seemed to be the most normal one.

Song Youyi’s crying gradually subsided into sniffling sobs.

“Brother,” she asked softly, her voice still choked with tears.

“Can I take your clothes? Will you still yell at me?”

In the place Song Ning couldn’t see, Song Youyi’s eyes were rimmed red, tears falling like beads.

But on that fair, pretty face, her expression held no grievance.

Her gaze was somewhat calm, a faint smile curling at the corners of her mouth, as if she was satisfied with the effect of her crying performance.

One hand was fiercely pinching her own thigh, pinching the skin there until it turned blue and purple—only then could she make the tears fall more convincingly, the cries sound more pained.

Her acting wasn’t great, but at least her brother couldn’t see her expression.

Song Youyi’s other hand rummaged through the messy pile of clothes—one, two, three pieces, flipping past the nightgown, the inner garment, the outer robe, until she touched a pair of pants.

Heavy and balled up into a lump.

Her fingers tightened slightly as she pulled the pants out and held them close, the smile on her lips deepening.

Her gaze landed on the pants for a moment, then quickly shifted away.

Song Ning’s ears twitched, picking up sounds of rustling, the friction of fabric, like someone searching for something.

His heartbeat quickened, his fingers gripping the blanket corner, his throat bobbing slightly.

“Youyi,” he said tentatively, keeping his voice as casual as he could. “What are you doing?”

“Put the clothes down and talk to your brother for a bit, okay?”

“The clothes aren’t really important anyway.”

Song Youyi raised an elegant eyebrow and complained with a tearful voice:

“I’m looking for a handkerchief to wipe my tears. You don’t care about me anyway, brother.”

As she spoke, she lowered her head to dab at her tears, her voice sounding utterly pitiful.

Song Youyi closed her eyes and took a deep breath, clutching that bundle of clothes tightly in her hand.

A strange bitterness welled up in her heart. How could Qi Chuyao have her brother and not treasure him?

And what about her? She could only play games like this, hugging his clothes.

If Qi Chuyao had spent the night here, she’d probably just be coming to collect laundry without any real role.

At that thought, the jealousy in Song Youyi’s heart burned uncontrollably, but recalling how forcefully Qi Chuyao, as a martial artist, had acted that night, her spirits deflated.

She’d probably never reach that level, would she? To make her brother go that far, to make those sounds.

“Brother didn’t mean it like that,” Song Ning’s voice came from the bed, laced with helplessness and concern. “Why are you twisting my words?”

“Who says I don’t care about you? Stop crying.”

He sighed and reached a hand out in the direction of her voice, his fingers groping through the air, searching for her.

“Let me wipe them for you,” he said, his voice as gentle as the March spring breeze.

‘Oh well, she probably hasn’t found anything. If she had, she’d feel awkward and make an excuse to put the clothes down, right?’

‘Besides, there’s no way my little sister would hand-wash clothes herself. She shouldn’t notice.’

Song Youyi’s heart leaped. She suddenly stood up, took two steps back, and muttered:

“Brother, you’re so full of yourself. I haven’t forgiven you yet.”

“I won’t let you wipe them.”

‘That was close, so close to letting him touch me. If he had, I’d probably never be able to come here again.’

…

“Who’s crying, Xia Shuang?” In the side room, Xia Ling yawned, stretched, and bounced out the door, asking Xia Shuang, who was standing in the doorway staring blankly.

“The Second Young Lady has arrived.”

“She’s, in the room.” Xia Shuang snapped back to attention, replying concisely while holding her sword.

Xia Ling’s bright, big eyes blinked. She lightly tapped Xia Shuang. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Xia Shuang gave Xia Ling a flat look, her gaze as if looking at an idiot, filled with disdain.

Xia Ling immediately understood what she meant.

She’d been napping at the time. What good would telling her have done?

Besides, the visitor wasn’t a stranger. If the Second Young Lady had come, what could waking her up accomplish? Was she going to refuse entry?

Xia Ling cupped her face, a troubled expression clouding her delicate, flower-like features as she sighed.

‘What does this dumb sister of mine know? She hasn’t seen the shady things the Second Young Lady did in the carriage!’

‘How can I let her be alone in a room with the young master again? What if she pulls some perverted stunt while he can’t see her?’

‘Wait, no—my sister isn’t dumb. She just looked down on me.’

“Xia Shuang, you’ve changed. You used to be so honest,” Xia Ling complained quietly.

Xia Shuang looked up at the sky, staring at the clouds on the horizon, daydreaming, her blue dress fluttering in the wind, her cool little face tight, lost in thought.

Xia Ling carefully crept toward Song Ning’s room.

‘I have to see what they’re up to.’