#wonjiwrites

nothing serious. just catching up, laughing at some dumb story about a failed blind date your friend had gone on last weekend. your giggles came easy, light and unbothered, the kind that filled the room without trying too hard. renjun rarely got jealous. he trusted you, trusted the steady thing you two had built over the past year of dating like regular people—coffee runs, late-night walks, him teaching you simple mandarin phrases while you helped him practice korean recipes. he wasn’t the type to make scenes or overthink small stuff.  

but tonight something shifted.  

he glanced over his shoulder, knife pausing mid-chop as another soft laugh left your lips. his brows raised just a fraction, dark eyes narrowing slightly in that calm, observant way of his. not angry. just... curious. a little pointed. he set the knife down, wiped his hands on the dish towel, and turned fully toward you. the apartment smelled like garlic and sesame oil, warm and familiar.  

“who’s that?” he asked, voice even, almost casual. no edge, just straightforward like he was asking about the weather.  

you pulled the phone away for a second, covering the mic with your palm, still smiling. “just ji-eun. she’s telling me about this guy who showed up to dinner in pajamas. it’s hilarious.” you let out another small laugh, waving it off like it was nothing, and went back to the call. “sorry, go on—”  

renjun didn’t push. he turned back to the stove, stirring the pan with a wooden spoon, but the air between you felt a touch heavier now. not dramatic. just there. he tasted the sauce, adjusted the heat, moved with the same quiet efficiency. five minutes passed. your conversation wrapped up naturally, goodbyes exchanged, phone set face-down on the table.  

you stood up, stretching, ready to help set the table. “smells good. need me to grab plates?”  

he didn’t answer right away. instead he lowered the flame, turned to face you again. that same raised-brow look lingered, softer now but still present. “you were giggling a lot,” he said simply, tone calm, almost conversational. his mandarin accent curled lightly around the korean words, the way it always did when he was relaxed. “sounded fun.”  

you laughed it off again, stepping closer to loop your arms around his waist from behind as he faced the counter. “it was. nothing serious. you know how she gets with her stories.” your chin rested against his shoulder, breathing in the faint scent of his cologne mixed with dinner. “jealous?” you teased lightly, expecting the usual brush-off. renjun wasn’t possessive like that.  

he let out a short breath, almost a chuckle, but didn’t deny it outright. his hand covered yours on his stomach for a moment, warm and steady. then he turned in your hold, facing you properly. at 171cm he wasn’t towering, but the way he looked at you now—close, direct—made the space feel smaller. “not usually,” he admitted, voice low and matter-of-fact. “but hearing you laugh like that while i’m right here... hm.”  

you grinned, about to make another light comment, but he leaned in and kissed you once, slow and intentional. nothing rushed. his lips tasted faintly of the sauce he’d been tasting earlier. when he pulled back, his eyes held yours. “let’s see if you can laugh it off in a bit.”  

the words landed soft, but with enough weight that your stomach flipped. dinner was almost ready, but renjun had other ideas now. he turned the stove off completely, then guided you backward with gentle hands on your hips until your lower back met the edge of the table. no big production. just the two of you in the quiet apartment, the city hum faint outside the window.  

“renjun—” you started, half-laughing still, but he shook his head once, that calm expression never breaking.  

“sit,” he said, simple as that.  

you did, hopping up onto the table. he stepped between your knees, hands sliding up your thighs over your lounge shorts, thumbs brushing the hem. his touch was unhurried, familiar. he kissed you again, deeper this time, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your neck. when he broke it, his forehead rested against yours for a second. “you’re mine to make laugh like that,” he murmured, almost to himself, before his fingers dipped under the fabric of your shorts and underwear in one smooth motion.  

no rush. he worked you open slowly, two fingers pressing in with that precise care he always had—watching your face the whole time, reading every small reaction. your breath hitched. the giggles from earlier died in your throat, replaced by softer sounds you couldn’t quite control. his other hand stayed on your thigh, holding you steady.  

“still laughing?” he asked quietly, voice steady even as his fingers curled just right, thumb circling where you needed it. the kitchen light cast warm shadows across his features, highlighting the small dimple that appeared when his mouth curved slightly. he wasn’t smirking. just focused, present.  

you shook your head, biting your lip, hips shifting involuntarily. the table creaked faintly under you. renjun kept the pace even, adding a third finger when you were ready, stretching you with the same patient rhythm he used when cooking or practicing dance moves alone in the living room. your head tipped back, a low moan slipping out instead of any laugh.  

“good,” he said, almost approving. he leaned in to kiss along your jaw, then your neck, nipping lightly at the spot he knew made your breath stutter. his free hand slipped under your shirt, palm warm against your skin, thumb brushing over your chest in lazy strokes. everything felt grounded—his body heat, the faint sizzle of residual oil in the pan, your own pulse in your ears. no over-the-top dirty talk. just him being renjun: soft in the way he touched, firm in the way he didn’t let up.  

minutes stretched. your legs trembled around his waist. he brought you right to the edge with his fingers alone, then eased back, drawing a frustrated sound from you. “renjun, please—”  

“not yet,” he replied calmly, withdrawing his hand only to tug your shorts and underwear down your legs in one go. he freed himself from his own sweats, rolling on a condom from the drawer nearby like it was the most normal thing in the world. then he was back between your thighs, pushing in slow and deep, one hand gripping your hip to keep you from sliding on the table.  

the stretch burned nicely. you clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into his shirt. he moved with controlled thrusts, deep and steady, eyes half-lidded as he watched you fall apart. every time you tried to hide your face or bite back a sound, he’d tilt your chin back up gently. “let me hear,” he said, voice low but not demanding—just honest.  

you couldn’t laugh it off anymore. your mind went hazy, thoughts scattering as he fucked you right there on the kitchen table, dinner forgotten on the stove. the angle hit perfectly each time, his hips rolling in that precise way that came from years of dance training. sweat beaded on his forehead, but his breathing stayed measured, only breaking when he groaned softly against your ear.  

“you feel so good,” he whispered, simple and real, no flowery lines. his hand slipped between you again, fingers finding your clit while he kept thrusting. the dual sensation pushed you over fast—body tensing, a broken moan tearing from your throat as you came hard around him.  

renjun followed not long after, burying himself deep with a quiet curse in mandarin, forehead pressed to your shoulder. for a minute you both just breathed, his arms wrapping around you to keep you close. the apartment smelled like half-cooked food and sex now.  

he pulled out carefully, disposed of the condom, then helped you down from the table on shaky legs. a small, satisfied smile tugged at his lips as he brushed hair from your face. “dinner’s probably cold,” he said, voice back to its usual calm. “we can reheat.”  

you leaned into him, still catching your breath, no giggles left—just warm exhaustion and the quiet certainty that renjun, even when a flicker of jealousy showed, handled it like everything else: straightforward, without turning it into something bigger than it was. he kissed your temple once, then went back to the stove like nothing had happened, though the way his hand lingered on your lower back said otherwise.