jooyeon sits next to you on the couch, all long legs and that dumb grin that makes your brain short-circuit. you don’t know what’s worse—the fact that he’s wearing that particular hoodie you like on him or the way his neck is just there.
like, WHO gave him permission? his hair is still damp from the shower. he looks wrecked, judging by his toned down loudness. three days of nonstop performing would do that to anyone, but here he is, lounging like it’s no big deal.
“you good?” he asks, glancing at you from where he’s propped up against the couch. he’s tired, you can see it in the way his shoulders sag a little and how his usual energy is dialed down to a lazy grin. but there’s still something mischievous in his tone, like he knows you’re one heartbeat away from blowing up.
he’s right, by the way.
you’re trying to focus on literally anything else—the pile of laundry you’ve been ignoring, the weird stain on the carpet, the meaning of life—but no, your brain’s like jooyeon’s neck, jooyeon’s neck, jooyeon’s—
you shift uncomfortably, trying to focus on the TV instead of, well, him. the way his hoodie hangs loose around his collarbones is driving you insane. you’ve been doing so well all weekend, keeping your thoughts appropriate, but now? now, the universe has you cornered.
“could you please get your neck away from me?” you blurt out, crossing your arms and leaning as far away as the couch allows. “i’ve fought so hard to remove that image of your neck i saw from pinterest on my mind, and i don’t think i can go through that again.”
jooyeon blinks at you, caught off guard. he freezes. did you just say you’ve been thinking about his neck?
suddenly, the fatigue that had been weighing him down for days? gone. vanished. wiped from existence. he feels alive.
his eyebrows shoot up, and for a second, you think he didn’t hear you. then, he bursts out laughing, the kind of laugh that makes his voice high-pitched, shoulders shake and his eyes crinkle, and okay, now this is worse.
“my neck?” he wheezes, clutching his stomach like you’ve just delivered the punchline of the century.
“yes, your neck!” you glare at him, but it’s hard to stay mad when he’s laughing like that. “someone posted that stupid picture of yours looking all worked up with your head thrown back and your veins showing— and oh my god, describing it is so weird but now i can’t look at you without thinking about it. so move. away.”
instead of moving away, he leans in closer, his face way too close to yours. “you’re saying you’re obsessed with my neck?”
“jooyeon, i swear to god—”
“no, no, go on,” he says, grinning like the menace he is. “tell me more about how my neck haunts your dreams.”
he’s losing it inside—but the way you’re burying your face in your hands makes his chest feel lighter, like he could run another concert right now, fueled entirely by your flustered energy.
“this is why i don’t tell you things,” you mumble, voice muffled.
“but you did,” he teases, poking your arm. “and now i’m never gonna let you forget it.”
you peek at him through your fingers, narrowing your eyes. “you’re insufferable.”
“and you’re obsessed with my neck.”
“oh my god, shut up.”
he laughs again, softer this time, and when you finally pull your hands away from your face, he’s looking at you with that stupidly fond expression that makes your chest feel all warm and weird.
“don’t worry,” he says, tilting his head with a smirk that should be illegal. “my neck’s all yours. if you want, you can even mark it up.”
your brain short-circuits so hard you can barely process his words. he tries stifling a laugh after he see you pause and your jaw literally drop. this’ll be worth it, he thought.
“what—who says that?!” you choke, smacking his shoulder like it’ll erase the memory.
he shrugs, all casual, like his insides aren’t doing somersaults. “i’m just saying, if you’re this obsessed, we might as well make it official.”
you grab a pillow and smack him square in the face. he yelps, laughing as he tries to shield himself, but you’re relentless, fueled by sheer embarrassment and the need to wipe that smirk off his stupidly handsome face.
“ow—hey! violence?!” he yelps, laughing as he tries to shield himself. his cheeks hurt from smiling, and his heart’s doing that weird thing again, the one it always does around you.
when you finally stop, breathless and red-faced, he leans back on the couch, watching you with the kind of quiet confidence that makes your stomach flip.
“you know,” he says, voice soft and teasing, “you’re kind of cute when you’re flustered.”
you groan, flopping back against the couch and covering your face again. and your boyfriend?
he just grins like an idiot, feeling more energized than he has in days.
oon täs lowkey saamas jonkinlaista eksistentaalista kriisiä ku oon koko sen ajan ku oon laulanu (koht joku 5 vuottta) luullu olevani alto-ish mut nyt sit tänään pari tuntii sit aloin jostain tuntemattomasta syystä miettii et voisinkohan mä sittenki olla sopraano/mezzosopraano ku siis alttoääni on mun käsittääkseni aika semmonen syvä ja täyteläinen jyhkeä ja kuunneltuani äänitteitä omasta laulustani nii sanoisin et en kyllä kovin jyhkeältä kuulosta vaan pikemminki aika kukkopilliltä also en oo mikään kovin upee belttaaja niinku yleinen käsitys mezzosopraanoista kuuluu mut se on ehk vaan skill issue eikä johdu siit ite äänen laadusta
