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It was a good thing Jisung had his ankle hooked around Minho’s under this crooked, rickety table because otherwise, he would have floated up to the sky, untethered, untenable. His raw, red heart a beacon amongst the pale blue and cotton white, laid bare for all who remained with their feet firmly on the ground to see, the way it beat, fast and furious, a rhythm that would be telling even to a casual observer, that screamed with every pound: He loves me. He loves me. He loves me.
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- Part 7 of author’s favourites
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author´s favorites, my favorites, everyone´s favorites
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