[ Momo's a bit of a contradiction: his heart is hammering, but his breathing is steady. A cacophony of calm-confused, topped off with amiability curling the corner of his lips.
He blinks, scratches his chin, and turns his brows down. His palms come together. ]
Sorry, sorry. [ Voice pitched down to a whisper. ] —I don't think I'm built to fly like that, though!?
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He blinks, scratches his chin, and turns his brows down. His palms come together. ]
Sorry, sorry. [ Voice pitched down to a whisper. ] —I don't think I'm built to fly like that, though!?