Part 2 of ex!reader x Bad bunny
Summary: It’s morning after you let him into your house again and when you wake up the spot he slept on is empty.
Warnings: bit of angst, Google translate Spanish
a/n: let me know if you like it and if i should do part 3
Morning doesn’t arrive gently. It presses into your warm skin. The light slips through the thin gap in your curtains in a pale gold stripe that stretches slowly down the wall and over the empty pillow beside you.
You wake up before you remember why your heart already feels heavy. For a few seconds, you just lie there. Staring at the faint cracks in the paint above your bed. Listening. Your body feels different. Like it’s aware of something it shouldn’t be aware of anymore. The mattress dips differently. The sheets are warmer on one side. There’s the faint smell of cologne still clinging to your pillowcase, mixed with the detergent you’ve used for years.
And then it hits you. He was here. The night folds back into your mind in slow, vivid flashes. The Grammy on your coffee table. His voice, tired and cracked from liquor. The way his hand held your wrist like you were the only stable thing in the room.
The quiet “no desaparezcas” breathed against the dark. Your stomach tightens violently. Your eyes move to the space beside you.
Empty.
The pillow slightly indented but already losing its shape. You sit up too fast. The blanket falls into your lap and the room feels wrong. It feels still and untouched.There’s no sound of breathing. No weight shifting. No soft hum of someone not used to sleeping in silence.
“Of course” you mutter with a scoff under your breath. You press your palm against the sheet where he should be. It’s barely warm. Enough to confirm he was there. Not enough to comfort you.
He left. Of course he left. And you aren’t even surprised that he did. You swallow hard and force yourself to breathe through the familiar sting climbing up your throat. You don’t cry. You refuse to cry. You already promised yourself months ago you wouldn’t do that again.
You swing your legs off the bed and stand, heart pounding in your ears. You helped him and let him into your house. You let him lie in your bed again. And he left before you woke up. The humiliation hits harder than the disappointment. You pace once across the room, then back.
“Estúpida.” you whisper to yourself with a scoff. Naive. Weak. Predictable.
He comes back the night he wins the biggest award of his life, smelling like champagne and regret, and you open the door like he never shattered you in the first place. You replay it now with bitterness towards yourself and how stupid you were.
Of course he needed “something real” and he wanted comfort. And he knew you would give it to him. And then when the adrenaline wore off? When the vulnerability wasn’t romantic anymore? He slipped out quietly before you could wake up and ask what any of it meant.
Your jaw tightens almost painfully. You walk into the bathroom and catch your reflection. Hair messy. Oversized t-shirt wrinkled from sleep. Eyes already glossy.
“Don’t” you warn yourself looking in the mirror as the tears threaten to fall down your face.
You grip the edge of the sink. You will not cry over a man who left twice now. The anger builds slower than the hurt, but it’s steadier. Hotter and cleaner. You picture him in the early morning, slipping his jacket on quietly. Checking his phone. Deciding he’d done enough damage for one night. Maybe leaving a soft kiss on your temple like that would somehow make it romantic instead of cowardly.
You curse him in your head in two languages. but you curse yourself even more. You shouldn’t have let him stay. You shouldn’t have let him hold your wrist and stop you. And you definitely shouldn’t have whispered you were proud of him.
Your chest tightens painfully at the memory. You walk back into the bedroom and yank the blanket straight like erasing evidence. You grab his pillow and toss it back into place like the dent never existed.
“Of course he ran.” you mutter. “That’s what he does.” Your thoughts spiral. Maybe he panicked. Or maybe he regretted it. You visioned him waking up sober and realizing he’d crawled back into the one place he swore he wouldn’t.
The worst part isn’t that he left. It’s that he didn’t wake you. He didn’t try to explain again.
Your eyes burn now and you hate it. You hate that the tears feel less like sadness and more like rejection. Like being chosen only when convenient.
You drag your hands down your face. You promised you will not be the girl he runs to when the world gets loud and then leaves when it quiets down. You walk out of the bedroom stiffly, already rehearsing the version of yourself that doesn’t answer if he calls again.
You make it halfway down the hallway before you stop. There’s a sound. Soft and too quiet.
A low hum. You freeze in your tracks. It’s coming from downstairs, from your kitchen. You stand completely still, heart suddenly pounding again but for a different reason.
The hum shifts into a melody. One you know too well. The one that hasn’t been released yet.
Your anger falters and now you are left confused. You move slowly like approaching something fragile. With each step down the stairs, the smell reaches you first. Coffee. Fresh but strong. When reach the last step and turn the corner into the kitchen.
He’s there. Barefoot and still in yesterday’s trousers, shirt sleeves rolled up unevenly like he did it absentmindedly. His hair is messy in a way that tells you he showered but didn’t style it. Curls softer, looser. Damp at the edges. He’s standing at your counter like he belongs there.
Your coffee mugs are out. Two of your favorite ones. He’s humming under his breath while carefully pouring from your French press, watching the stream like it’s delicate.
There’s sunlight cutting across the kitchen window and it hits the side of his face, warming his skin gold. He looks calmer than he did last night. Not fully rested. But clearer. For a second you just stare. Your anger, mid-eruption, has nowhere to land. He turns slightly to reach for the sugar bowl. And he sees you.
The humming stops immediately. His shoulders stiffen, just slightly.
He studies your face like he’s trying to read which version of you woke up this morning. You don’t say anything. You just cross your arms.
He swallows.
“I-” he starts, then stops. Your silence is heavy enough to make him reset. He sets the spoon down slowly, carefully, like sudden movements would make you disappear.
“Yo no me iba.” he says quietly. You don’t move and your expression doesn’t soften. You want him to feel exactly how it felt to wake up alone.
His brows pull together slightly. “Me desperté y todavía estabas dormido.” he continues, voice steady but cautious. “Te veías en paz. No quería despertarte.”
Your jaw tightens. “So you just disappeared?”
“Bajé las escaleras.”he says gently. “No muy lejos.” The humiliation from earlier surges back, clashing with relief. You hate that you feel relieved.
“I thought you left,” you say finally, your voice sharper than you intended. His face shifts instantly. Not defensive but slightly hurt.
“No haría eso.” he says. And there’s something firm in it. Something sober. You let out a dry laugh.
“You have.” The words hang dangerously in the air. He doesn’t dare to argue. He nods once, accepting the hit.
“Lo sé.” The honesty makes it harder to stay angry. But you force yourself to. You step into the kitchen fully now, but you don’t get too close. “I wake up and you’re gone after last night” Your voice cracks slightly and you hate that it does. “What was I supposed to think?”
His shoulders drop a fraction. “Que corrí.” he says quietly. You don’t answer. Because yes that’s exactly what you thought. He exhales slowly and drags a hand over his face.
“Lo siento” he says looking at you like you’re fragile. “Por anoche. Por ponerte en esa situación.” You look at him carefully. He looks different this morning. Still Benito. Always the man who can command stadiums. But right now he just looks like someone standing in a kitchen hoping you don’t close the door again.
“Quise decir lo que dije.” he continues. “Pero no debería haber venido sin preguntar. No debería haber asumido que abrirías la puerta.” You blink. He glances at the mugs, then back at you.
“No me fui porque me arrepintiera.” he says. “Me desperté y, por primera vez en meses, mi cabeza no estaba ruidosa.” Your anger wavers again. You hate how much his words affects you.
“Bajé las escaleras porque quería estar aquí cuando te despertaras.” he adds softly. The kitchen feels smaller suddenly. The morning light feels warmer. You look at the two mugs.
“You made coffee.” A faint almost-smile touches his mouth.
“Sigues comprando la misma marca.” Your throat tightens and you shook your head in disbelief. You don’t move toward the mug. Not yet. “You don’t get to just come back because you won something,” you say. The anger isn’t explosive anymore. It’s raw. “You don’t get to decide you miss me and just show up.”
“Lo sé.”
“Do you?” Your voice rises slightly. “Because last time you decided for both of us too.”
He nods again slower this time like reminding the past wounded him. “Pensé que te estaba protegiendo.”
“No, you were protecting yourself.”
He doesn’t deny that either and the silence stretches. But it’s not suffocating anymore.
He finally reaches for one of the mugs and steps closer holding it out for you. “No te estoy pidiendo que olvides.” he says. “Te estoy pidiendo la oportunidad de arreglar lo que rompí.”
You stare at the cup in his hand. Your emotions feel tangled. Anger and relief mixing with each other. Stubborn love you haven’t managed to kill. You take the mug slowly. Your fingers brush his for half a second. “I don’t trust you,” you say quietly.
“Lo sé.”
“And I don’t know if I can again.”
“También sé eso.”
There’s no frustration in his voice. Just acceptance of your choice. He picks up his own mug but doesn’t drink yet. “No estoy aquí porque estuviera solo.” he says after a moment. “Estaba solo porque te dejé.
That lands too deep than you would like to admit to yourself. He looks at you fully now.
“No espero que simplemente me dejes volver.” he continues. “Sé que tomará tiempo.”
You study him carefully. He still looks tired but not because he is hungover, it’s something heavier sitting in his chest.
“I don’t want to be the place you run to when things get loud and you know i will help” you say with frown on your face.
“No quiero correr más.” The quiet conviction in his voice makes your chest tighten again. You both stand there for a moment, the steam from the mugs curling between you. Finally, he sets his cup down.
“Hay algo que quiero preguntar.” he says carefully. You brace yourself for whatever he wants to say. “Tengo que estar en Nueva York por unos días.” he continues. “Algunas reuniones. Nada glamoroso.”
You stiffen slightly and he notices. “No te estoy pidiendo que vuelvas a saltar a mi mundo.” he adds quickly. You blink. “Why then?”
He steps a little closer, but still keeps space.
“Porque quiero empezar de nuevo en un lugar que ambos conocemos.” he says. “Donde no solo aparezca en tu puerta sin avisar. Donde tenga que presentarme todos los días y ganarme el espacio a tu lado.”
Your heart stumbles and breath quickens just slightly. “Te conseguiré tu propia habitación.” he adds softly. “No tienes que asistir a nada. Podemos simplemente existir en la misma ciudad. Tomar un café. Caminar. Hablar.”
He swallows. “Déjame demostrar que puedo quedarme”
The proposition hangs between you. It’s not flashy or demanding. He is giving you the space to decline it. You look down at your mug, then back at him.
“You think a trip fixes this?”
“No” he says immediately shaking his head. “Espero que el esfuerzo sí lo haga. Solo estoy pidiendo la oportunidad de empezar.”
Your pulse is loud in your ears. You didn’t expect words like that. You expected apologies. Maybe promises that wouldn’t be true. Not this. “I don’t want to feel stupid again,” you admit quietly.
He steps forward just enough that you can feel his warmth, but he doesn’t touch you. “No lo harás.” he says looking at you with promise im his eyes. Your eyes search his face for performance. For the man who thought distance would fix everything. And you don’t see him even when you try. You see someone trying very carefully not to lose something again.
The morning light has fully filled the kitchen now. The world outside is awake and warm. And for the first time since you opened the door last night, you don’t feel like you’re standing on the edge of something fragile. You feel like you’re standing at the beginning of a choice.
He waits without pushing or rushinh you into saying yes. Just stands there with patience you’re not used to from him.
“New York?” you repeat softly. A small nod from him makes you almost scoff at how ridiculous it was.
“Solo unos pocos días.” You exhale slowly. You don’t answer him right away. He doesn’t expect you to. The kitchen is still wrapped in that soft, fragile quiet that only exists in early morning. The kind that feels suspended, like the day hasn’t fully decided what it’s going to become yet. Sunlight stretches across the counter in long golden strips, catching the steam from your coffee and turning it into something almost visible enough to touch.
He’s watching you, but not in a way that feels demanding. You wrap both hands around the mug, letting the warmth ground you. Your heart hasn’t fully calmed down since you woke up. It’s just beating differently now. Less sharp. More uncertain.
New York. A few days. Familiar ground.
You walk past him slowly, not brushing against him this time, and sit at the small table by the window. The chair scrapes lightly against the floor. The sound feels louder than it should.
He doesn’t follow immediately. He gives you space. That matters more than you let it show.
You stare out the window at the street below. A woman walking her dog. A delivery truck double parked. Ordinary life continuing without any awareness that yours is balancing on something delicate. You imagine it. An airport terminal. The two of you not touching but walking side by side. The way cameras would try to catch something if anyone noticed. The way you’d have to decide how visible you’re willing to be.
Your chest tightens. It isn’t the public part that scares you most. It’s the private part. Sharing space again with him. Seeing if he reaches for your hand without thinking. Wondering if you still reach back. You take a slow sip of coffee.
He moves then, finally, pulling out the chair across from you but not sitting too close. His movements are careful this morning. Measured. Like he’s hyperaware of every inch.
“No quiero presionarte.” he says quietly. You nod once, eyes still on the window. “I know.”
If this were the old version of him, he would have filled the silence. Sold you the idea. Turned it into something romantic and impulsive and irresistible.
This version is just steady and underneath all of it a bit scared. You hate that steadiness makes it harder to say no. You let your mind wander forward. You picture waking up in a hotel room alone while he’s at interviews. You picture him coming back late, exhausted, and choosing to sit beside you anyway. You picture arguments in familiar cities. Laughter in cars.
“You left me because you thought it was better” you say, now looking fully at him.
“Si.”
“You were wrong.”
“Yo estaba.”
The lack of defense makes something in you soften against your will. He looks nervous. Not the kind of nervous that comes before a performance. The kind that comes before someone you love makes a decision about your place in their life.
“You think a few days in another city will make me trust you again?” you ask.
“No” he answers immediately. “Creo que te mostrará que estoy dispuesto a quedarme incluso cuando sea inconveniente.”
You look at him slightly confused now. “Inconvenient?” He nods. “Es fácil aparecer en tu puerta a las dos de la mañana cuando estoy emocionado” he says. “Fue más difícil presentarme todos los días después del trabajo. Cuando estoy cansado. Cuando estás callada.”
Your fingers tighten around the mug. He’s right. Last night was dramatic and somehow vulnerable. Real life isn’t. Real life is coffee and silence and deciding who loads the dishwasher.
“Why now?” you ask softly.
He leans back slightly, exhaling through his nose. “Porque pensé que ganar y marcharme haría que doliera menos.” he says. The honesty hits in a place you’ve been guarding.
“Seguí pensando que dejaría de extrañarte” he continued “Como si fuera una fase. Como si el éxito lo reemplazara.”
“And?”
“No funcionó.” You remember the night he left. The way he convinced himself distance was kindness. The way you convinced yourself you’d survive it. You did survive it. But you didn’t stop loving him. That’s the part that makes this dangerous. You stand up abruptly and walk back toward the counter, needing movement. Needing something solid beneath your hands again.
He doesn’t try to stop you. “I don’t want to be the girl who follows you around.” you say, staring down at the sink. “I don’t want to feel like I’m fitting myself into your world again.”
“Yo tampoco quiero eso. Quiero que veas que valgo la pena para elegir de nuevo.” You close your eyes. He stands slowly this time and steps closer but still leaves a respectful distance between you.
“Quiero que digas que sí porque crees que puedo hacerlo mejor.”Your chest aches at that. Because that’s the real question, can you? You turn to face him fully now. He looks hopeful. There’s a vulnerability in him this morning that feels earned. You imagine staying here instead. Letting him leave alone. Protecting yourself with distance the way he once did.
You imagine the relief of safety. You imagine the regret of what-if. You hate that the what-if feels heavier. “Tendrás tu propia habitación.” he says again gently, almost like he’s reminding you of your autonomy. “Puedes irte cuando quieras. Sin expectativas.”
Your lips press together tightly. You think about waking up in a different city and choosing, every day, whether to meet him for coffee. You think about watching him work without being hidden. You think about seeing if he looks for you in a room and doesn’t lose you this time.
Your heart is scared. But it isn’t screaming no. And that surprises you most. You walk past him toward the hallway, needing a second alone.
He lets you. In your bedroom, the sheets are still slightly rumpled from last night. His side still faintly indented. You sit on the edge of the bed. You remember how his hand felt wrapped loosely around your waist in his sleep. You remember the way he whispered for you not to disappear. You’re tired of disappearing too.
You’re tired of loving him from a distance that was supposed to protect you.
After few minutes you stand up slowly. When you walk back into the kitchen, he looks up immediately. You don’t smile. But you don’t look closed off either. “I’m not promising anything” you say carefully.
His breath catches slightly.
“Lo sé.”
“This isn’t us getting back together.” He nodded his head agreeing to your words.You step closer, close enough that you can see the faint crease between his brows.
“I’m going because I want to see if you mean it.” you continue. “If you can stay. If you can choose me.”
His eyes soften.
“Puedo.”
You hold his gaze for a long moment. “Then I’ll come.” The words feel terrifying and steady all at once. Relief washes over his face but he doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t overwhelm you with gratitude. He just nods once, like he understands the weight of what you’re offering.
“Okay” he says softly with a sigh of relief.
When he confirms it, it feels like a new beginning. And this time, you’re choosing to walk into it being scared and hopeful for a change at the same time.
