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Summary
Maybe, just maybe it would be a lie if Yoonchae said that this time wasn’t different. If she said that Megan’s face wasn’t flushed, if her breath wasn’t hitching, if Yoonchae couldn’t feel the pulsing of her heart through her palms, almost as if her blood was flowing into Yoonchae’s own veins. 112 BPM, she thinks, trying to pinpoint the specific on the tick marks of a metronome. She likes specific, likes being able to fit things into boxes, likes things neat. Orderly. Controlled. Megan is none of these things.
or: yoonchae wonders.
edit: changed some things
