Summary: You’re convinced Benito forgot about Valentine’s day because of how busy he was for past few months.
Warnings: None, Pure fluff. Google translate Spanish
Valentine’s day feels louder when you’re alone.
Not in a dramatic, crying on the kitchen floor way just the kind where every notification buzz makes your shoulders lift a little before they fall again. The kind where the city outside your window keeps moving and you don’t.
Benito had warned you.
”Super bowl rehearsals, amor… then Argentina… It’s crazy right now."
You understood. You always did. You loved how hard he worked, loved watching your man become a storm people traveled continents to stand inside. But understanding didn’t stop the small ache sitting behind your ribs tonight.
His last text had come hours ago:
boarding now. call you later?
No heart. No teasing voice note. No feliz san valentín bebé. So you told yourself not to expect anything.
You ordered takeout you didn’t really want, let some rom-com play in the background, and tried not to think about couples posting roses and candlelight dinners and hands intertwined across tables.
7pm in Puerto Rico. 8pm in Argentina.
You did the math automatically then stopped yourself. He was busy. Exhausted. Probably asleep between flights. Still… your phone stayed in your hand waiting for any sign from him.
By around 9pm you’d convinced yourself to shower and go to bed early. The least thing you could do to make yourself feel better was your self care routine, tying your hair up and letting warm water quiet your thoughts.
The apartment was dark when you stepped back out, wrapped in a soft oversized shirt of his. The faded tour one you stole permanently.
And that’s when you noticed it. The balcony curtains were open. You were almost certain you’d closed them. A soft gold glow spilled into the living room from outside, flickering gently.
You froze
“…Hello?”
Nothing.
Your heart knocked once, hard, before you moved forward slowly, bare feet silent on the floor. The moment you pulled the curtain aside, your breath left you.
The balcony was covered in tiny warm lights, draped along the railing and overhead like a constellation pulled close enough to touch. Actual rose petals scattered across the tiles, a narrow path leading to the small table you normally used for coffee.
Exept now it held two plates, steam still curling into the air, and a single vinyl record spinning softly on a portable player. You recognized the song instantly one he only played late at night when he thought you were half asleep. And sitting there, elbows on knees, head bowed like he’d been waiting forever…
Was Benito.
You didn’t realize you’d whispered his name until he looked up. That slow grin the one that always felt private even when millions knew it spread across his face.
“Tú tardas demasiado en bañarte” he murmured.
You stared with jaw almost on the floor. “You… you’re in Argentina.”
He shook his head, standing, opening his arms a little. “I almost was in Argentina.”
You crossed the room in two quick steps and collided into him, hands gripping his hoodie as if he might vanish. He laughed softly into your hair, holding you tight, warm and real and smelling like airport and his cologne and something unmistakably him.
“Benito what about your show tomorrow?-”
“Mañana,” he said simply against your temple. “Everything is tomorrow. Tonight is you.”
You pulled back, eyes scanning his face like proof. “You flew here just for tonight?”
He lifted one shoulder, almost shy despite the grandness of it. “I knew you’d say it’s okay if i missed it. So i couldn’t miss it.”
Your throat tightened and heart clenched with warm feeling only he could pull from you.
“You didn’t text me,” You accused weakly.
“Because you know me,” he said, nudging your nose with his. “If i text, I ruin the surprise.”
You looked past him again. The lights, the food, the song. “You did all this?”
“I had some help,” he admitted. “But the idea… fue mía.”
He guided you to the table, pulling out your chair with exaggerated gentleman seriousness that made you laugh breathlessly.
“Wait,” you said suddenly, grabbing his sleeve before sitting. “What time did you land?”
He checked his watch. “Forty minutes ago.”
“Benito-”
“Tranquilla,” he chuckled. “I slept on the plane.”
“You hate sleeping on planes.” You argued with a soft smile on your face at how dedicated he was.
“I hate not being with you more.”
The sentence hung there, simple and heavy.
You sat slowly, warmth spreading through your chest as he took the seat across from you. The lights reflected softly in his eyes, softer than stage lights ever made them.
“Happy valentine’s day, Te amo más que a todo en este mundo.” He said, finally.
The words you’d convinced yourself you didn’t need somehow felt enormous now.
“I love you too. So much.” you whispered back.
Dinner blurred between teasing and quiet moments. His hand reaching across the table to steal from your plate, your foot brushing his under the table until he caught your ankle and kept it there, thumb absentmindedly tracing slow circles.
The song ended, another started, and eventually you moved to sit beside him instead of across, sharing the chair because neither of you wanted distance.
“You were sad earlier,” he said softly, not a question.
You leaned your head on his shoulder. “…a little.”
“Because you thought i forgot.”
You nodded once.
His fingers tilted your chin up gently. “I could forget a lyric before i forget you.”
You huffed a quiet laugh. “You forget lyrics all the time.”
“Exacto,” he smirked. “That’s how serious this is.”
Your hand rested against his chest, feeling his heartbeat steadier than crowds ever allowed. “You didn’t have to fly across the world for me.”
“I wanted to,” he corrected. Then, quieter: “Everything around me is loud. Contigo it’s quiet.”
The way he said it not dramatic, just honest made your eyes sting. You tried to deflect it.
“This is the sweetest thing you’ve ever done.”
“Mentira,” he said, leaning closer, voice dropping. “i’m cute all the time. You just don’t tell anyone.”
You rolled your eyes but didn’t move away, your noses brushing.
“You’re tired,” you murmured.
“A little,” he admitted. “Pero te extrañé más que el cansancio que tengo.”
His forehead rested against yours, fingers sliding along your jaw, slow and absentminded, like he was memorizing you again.
For a moment neither of you spoke just breathing the same air, the music low behind you.
“Stay awake with me a bit longer,” you whispered.
He smiled, eyes half-lidded. “For you? Siempre.”
You curled into his side, his arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you against him. The city noise below felt distant, softened by the cocoon of lights and his warmth.
“What time is your flight?” you asked.
“Early,” he said, not specifying.
You sighed but smiled anyway. “Worth it?”
He kissed the top of your head, lingering there.
“Cada kilómetro.”
And later, when the lights dimmed and conversation dissolved into comfortable silence, you realized Valentine’s day hadn’t been forgotten at all.
It had just been waiting at your door, carrying jet lag and roses and the kind of love that crossed oceans without asking for anything else in return.
Summary: Being a stylist for global icon might be overwhelming but sometimes it comes with soft conversions and shared hoodies
Warnings: none
a/n: let me know if you like it so i can make part 2<3
The first time you meet him, he’s sitting cross-legged on the dressing room floor in a hoodie that definitely does not belong to the outfit rack you precisely prepared.
You notice immediately because you’ve spent forty minutes arranging that rack into perfect color order: blacks, then off-blacks, then intentional faded blacks, and the one dramatic cream coat the creative director insists is “the moment.”
And he’s wearing a hoodie the exact wrong shade of gray. You pause in the doorway with an armful of garment bags, unsure if you should interrupt the man currently humming to himself while retying the same shoelace for the third time.
He looks up when he heard door opening. “Hi,” he says, like you’ve met before.
You blink. “Hi.” A beat of silence. He studies you, then the rack, then back to you. “I think I messed up your system.”
You glance at the hoodie again. “It’s okay,” you say softly. “Technically that one lives in your suitcase.”
He smiles. Quick and relieved, like you just forgave him for something much worse than wearing rehearsal clothes.
You stepped inside and hang the garment bags carefully. He scoots out of your way automatically, hands on the floor behind him, watching you work like it’s something interesting. Most artists don’t. Most artists scroll their phones or warm up for the show.
He just watches. “Are you new?” he asks.
“Kind of. I’m helping for this leg of the tour.”
He tilts his head. “You’re quiet.”
You almost apologize. “I try not to get in the way.” He frowns a little, like that answer bothers him. But before he says anything, someone knocks and calls his name from the hallway. He stands, brushing off his sweats.
“Okay,” he says to you, softer now. “See you later.”
And then he leaves like he didn’t make your day a tiny bit easier by this small conversation.
By the third show you’ve learned the rhythm.
Soundcheck chaos goes into quick wardrobe check then last-minute tailoring and pre-stage anxiety goes into post-stage calmness.
You exist mostly in the shadows of it. Steaming expensive jackets, lint rolling shoulders, fixing buttons five minutes before entrances. You’re good at being invisible. It’s part of the job. Artists perform better when they don’t feel watched from backstage.
Except he keeps noticing you. Not loudly. Not in a way that draws attention. Just small acknowledgements that land heavier than they should. One day you find a water bottle left on your folding table because you forgot yours. A quiet “gracias” every time you hand him something, even if ten other people also helped. Once, a chair nudged closer to your station so you wouldn’t have to stand during a long meeting. You never mention it. You assume he’s just observant or polite even though he didn’t have to do all of that stuff. After all he was the one that everyone worked around.
Tonight the venue is colder than the others. You can feel it in your fingers as you fasten cufflinks on the first outfit. Your hands shake slightly not nerves, just too low temperature.
He notices immediately. “You’re freezing.”
“I’m okay,” you say automatically. He doesn’t argue. He just disappears for a moment and comes back wearing a different hoodie. The wrong gray one and drapes the one he just had on over your shoulders without ceremony while the hair stylist adjusted his hair.
You stiffen. “You need that.”
“I have like twenty,” he says. “And you didn’t bring yours.”
You try to hand it back. He gently presses your wrist down. “Keep it. Please.”
The please is quiet enough that no one else hears it. You slowly nod with a bit of uncertainty. He smiles again. Softer this time.
He talks to you during outfit changes now.
They’re quick thirty seconds between songs so conversations happen in pieces.
“Did you eat?”
“Yes.”
“What did you listen to today?”
“Nothing yet.”
“I can give you some new stuff to listen to”
“Okay.”
He laughs once. “You always say okay.” You shrug too quickly. “I’m agreeable.”
“You’re careful.” You don’t answer because you’re adjusting the zipper up his back, and you’re close enough to notice his breathing slowing after a high-energy track. He trusts you enough to stand still, eyes closed, while you quietly work.
It feels intimate in a way that has nothing to do with fame. When he runs back on stage he turns briefly. Just long enough to tap the hoodie sleeve still around your shoulders in a silent reminder to keep it. You watch the monitor as he performs, not as a fan but as someone checking the fall of fabric under moving lights.
Still, sometimes somehow you forget to blink in slight almost unconscious awe.
After a show in Miami, the power flickers backstage. Half the crew groans. The generator kicks in but the main dressing room lighting stays dim. You continue steaming a jacket by phone flashlight.
“Hey.” His voice comes from the doorway.
You look up. He’s already changed into grey sweats, hair damp from a quick shower, energy calmer now. Offstage him always feels like a different person not smaller, just grounded. Like gravity works normally again.
“Everything okay?” you ask.
“Yeah. Just loud out there still.” You nod. Crowds linger for hours sometimes.
He leans against the wall, watching you guide steam along the sleeve.
“You don’t look at me the way other people do.”
The sentence is so direct you almost drop the steamer.
“I- what do you mean?” He shrugs lightly. “No expectations. No…star eyes.” He searches for the word. “You see a guy who spills coffee on his own outfits.”
You smile before you can stop yourself. “You do spill a lot of coffee.”
“Exactly.” He lets out a chuckle that made your stomach flip. Then a comfortable quiet settles. The kind that doesn’t demand unnecessary filling.
After a moment you say, “You’re working when you’re out there. I’m working back here. It’s the same job, just different departments.”
He studies you like that’s the most reasonable explanation he’s heard all week.
“So I’m not intimidating?” You shake your head. “You’re…normal.”
He exhales, almost laughing but not quite. Something relieved in it. “Good,” he says softly. “I like being normal with you.”
Your chest tightens, but you try to focus on turning off the steamer.
The hoodie becomes routine.
He doesn’t ask anymore.He just hands it to you before doors open. You fold it after the show and return it, and he pretends to forget it on a chair so you’ll keep it overnight for early load-ins.
No one comments. Backstage relationships are fluid. People orbit each other based on comfort. Yours just happens quietly. One night you’re sewing a torn seam while sitting on the floor because every surface is occupied. He finishes a rehearsal early and sits beside you, knees almost touching.
You keep sewing. He keeps sitting. After a moment of comfortable silence: “Does it stress you out?”
“What?”
“Being around all of this.” He said while gesturing with his hands. You think to give him an honest explanation. “No. I like making things work. It’s peaceful for me.”
He nods slowly. “Me too. Not the stage part. The part before. When it’s just people i know.”
You tie off the thread. “You seem calmer offstage.”
“I am.” He glances sideways. “Especially here.”
Your hands still. You don’t look at him because you’re suddenly aware of how close your shoulders are, how quiet the hallway became when the crew moved to catering.
“You should go rest,” you say gently.
“Okay,” he answers, but doesn’t move. After a few seconds he stands, then offers you a hand up without making it a big gesture. You take it.
His palm is warm. He lets go immediately as if your touch burned.
“Buenas noches,” he says.
“Goodnight.” He leaves, and you realize your heart has been beating too fast for a normal conversation.
The last show of the run always feels heavier. Not sad. Just aware. Everyone moves slower, memorizing routines they won’t repeat tomorrow. You press the final outfit perfectly. He’s pacing lightly, humming under his breath, energy contained.
Before going onstage he stops in front of you.
“I want to talk to you after this without it being work.” He lets out almost like he was rehearsing it night before to say it. His tone just a tiny bit shy but still he covered it with usual confidence.
Your stomach flips. “Okay. Yeah me too.” You nod looking at him with a smile that maybe was too eager.
He smiles nervously, hopeful and jogs toward the stage entrance. You watch the monitor, but tonight you’re not checking the outfit.
You’re looking at him. At every move, every smile he gave the audience and how he was a totally different person from the one you knew offstage.
After the encore the backstage erupts with congratulations, hugs and packing lists. You stay by the rack, organizing returns. It’s easier to keep moving. Eventually the hallway clears.
He appears, hair damp again, breathing even, just himself. No entourage. No rush.
“Hi,” he says, like the first day.
“Hi.” He steps closer, hands in his pockets now, suddenly less sure than he’s ever looked onstage. “I don’t really get normal conversations,” he admits. “People either want something or they’re nervous.”
You nod. “With you,” he continues, “I feel like I can be quiet and it’s okay.”
Your voice is soft. “It is okay.” He glances at the folded hoodie on the table.
“You kept it every day.”
“You kept leaving it.” A small laugh escapes him. Then his face got serious again. “When the tour moves, you won’t be there, right?”
“Different project.” He exhales slowly. “I don’t want the only place I get to be normal with to disappear.” Your fingers tighten on the fabric.
“I don’t know how this works,” you admit.
“Me neither,” he says quickly. “But maybe coffee? Somewhere boring. No backstage. No stage.” You look at him. Really look. Not the performer. Just a man asking carefully, giving you space to say no.
You smile. “I’d like that.” The relief on his face is immediate and warm and brighter than any stage light you’ve watched all month.
He picks up the hoodie and drapes it over your shoulders one more time. “Then keep it,” he says softly. “So you remember I’m real.”
You shake your head, smiling wider. “I never thought you weren’t.” He pauses, eyes gentler than you’ve ever seen.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s why I like you.”
And for the first time, you don’t feel like part of the background. You finally feel seen in the world of too bright lights and loud music.
Summary: He won a Grammy for album of the year. He’s drunk and calls you in the middle of the night.
Warnings: exes in love, a bit of angst, Google translate Spanish
a/n: i kinda want to do a part 2 of this, let me know if you want it<3
You’re halfway through brushing your teeth when your phone starts vibrating across the bathroom counter. Not the soft buzz of a notification. The loud, insistent rattle of a call.
Then another. And another. You stopped mid movement and looked down at your phone.
Benito calling.
For a moment you just stare. You deleted his contact months ago. You know you did. But you also know his number by heart in a way muscle memory never forgets. Your chest tightens before you even reach for the phone.
It stops. You breathe again but hen it rings immediately after. You quickly spit out and sighed before you can think about dignity.
“Hello?” Silence. Not empty silence just breathing. Close to the microphone. Uneven and shallow.
“Hola.” Your grip tightens around the phone. You would recognize that voice in a crowded stadium, through static, underwater, half-asleep, dead. The rasp in it is thicker tonight, slower around the edges.
“Benito?” you whisper. He lets out a small laugh tired that sounded more broken than you wished.
“Ganamos,” he murmurs. Your brain catches up. Tonight was The Grammys. The ceremony you refused to watch even though your friends texted you screenshots anyway. Album of the year.
You sit on the edge of the bathtub. “You won.”
Another laugh, this one breaking halfway through. “Yeah.” Something clinks near his mic glass, maybe. Voices far in the background. Too loud music. A car door? Hard to tell.
“Are you at a party?”
“No.” A pause. “Me fui.” You hear the faint hum of an engine. The indicator clicking. “Benito” You swallow. “Why are you calling me?”
The breathing shifts closer, like his forehead pressed to the phone.
“Porque no sabía a quién más llamar.” Your stomach drops. “You have literally everyone else.”
“No como tú.” The words are quiet, but not hesitant. They land heavy and certain, and it makes you press your free hand against your chest like something physically pushed you.
You close your eyes. You definitely shouldn’t stay on this call.
“Are you drunk?”
A beat.
“Un poco”
The lie is gentle. “Where are you?” Another pause, longer like he was hesitating.
“En el carro”
“With who?”
“Mi chofer” He exhales. You hear the window slide down; city noise floods in, cool air hitting the mic. “Le di una dirección.” Every nerve in your body wakes up like you were burnt.
“What address?”
He doesn’t answer immediately as if he was scared of your reaction.
“Benito.”
“Solo quería ver si contestabas primero.” Your heartbeat stutters.
“Tell me you didn’t-”
“Te extrañé.” It comes out low and raw, overlapping your sentence. No theatrics. No flirtation. Just a confession he sounds too tired to hide. You stand up automatically, pacing into your bedroom looking out of the window.
“You can’t just show up,” you say, voice thin.
“Okay.” But he doesn’t sound like he’s telling the driver to turn around. You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Did you tell him to come here?”
“Yeah.” You stop pacing and close your eyes in frustration.
“How far?”
“Cinco minutos” Your pulse roars in your ears and heart hammers in your chest.
“Benito, you can’t do this.”
“Ya lo hice.” The engine hum fills the silence between you. You sit on the edge of your bed, suddenly aware wearing a too big tshirt that you were supposed to sleep in.
“You shouldn’t be here tonight,” you say softly. “You should be celebrating.”
“Lo hice.”
“Then go back.”
“Lo intenté.” He inhales shakily. “Seguí buscándote en habitaciones en las que ya no existes.” Your throat tightens at the confession.
“You left me,” you remind him, barely above a whisper. A long quiet. No defensiveness. No argument. “Lo sé.”
The admission lands heavier than denial would have. You hear the car click again which meant slowing.
“No te pongas enojada” he murmurs.
“I’m not mad.”
You’re absolutely terrified. Headlights sweep across your window. Your heart stops abruptly in your chest.
“Benito.”
“Estoy afuera.” You don’t even remember hanging up. You just know you’re standing in your hallway staring at the door like it might disappear if you don’t keep eyes on it.
The buzzer doesn’t ring. Instead three slow knocks that felt almost unsure.
You open it before he can knock again. He leans against the doorframe immediately when it swings inward just because balance seems optional right now. Black suit jacket half off one shoulder, tie loose, curls flattened on one side like he’s been pressing his head to the car window.
His eyes lift to yours. Soft, red-rimmed and with hint of relief.
“Hi.” Every rehearsed boundary dissolves instantly.
“You actually came,” you breathe with disbelief because secretly you hoped the call was just his drunken words. He studies your face like he’s trying to memorize it faster than time allows. “Necesitaba algo real esta noche.” Up close you smell champagne, cologne, and the cold night air clinging to him. Glitter still dusts faintly along his collarbone from stage lighting makeup.
You notice the trophy in his hand only when it lightly taps your wall as he shifts. “You brought the Grammy.” You huffed out a laugh that was more broken than you wanted. He glances down at it like he forgot it existed.
“Yeah.” Silence stretches a bit awkward and too suffocating.
You step aside letting him in into the surroundings he remembered too well. He looked at you unsure and doesn’t move at first.
“Estás segura?” he asks quietly. Your heart squeezes at the hesitation. “You’re already here.” That’s enough for him.
He steps in carefully, like entering somewhere sacred rather than the apartment he once practically lived in. The driver’s car pulls away outside. The sound makes something final settle into the room. He stands in the middle of your living room looking disoriented, eyes moving across familiar furniture like memories keep overlapping reality.
“Moviste el sofá.”
“I wanted a change” You shrugged your shoulders looking at him as he was trying to not stumble over his own feet.
“Me gustaba verte cocinar.” You swallow closing your eyes for a second to gather your thoughts. “That’s why I moved it.” He nods slowly, accepting the logic like he deserves the consequence. You take the trophy gently from his hand before he drops it.
“You’re shaking,” you say.
“Adrenaline.” He pauses. “Y todo lo demás”
You place theaward carefully on the table. For a moment neither of you speaks. Then he exhales and his shoulders drop. The posture of a man who has been holding himself together publicly for too many hours.
“No sabía qué hacer esta noche.” he admits. “Todos seguían abrazándome, pero sentía que había olvidado algo en algún lugar.” Your chest aches uncomfortably like someone was sticing daggers in it.
“And that was me?” He meets your eyes immediately. “Siempre lo fue.” You look away first shaking your head in disbelief.
“You broke up with me, Benito.” His jaw tightens, pure regret written all over his face.
“Pensé que el éxito arreglaría las partes de mí que seguían lastimándote.” he says quietly. “Pensé que la distancia te ayudaría a respirar mejor.”
“It didn’t.”
“Ahora lo sé.” His voice cracks on the last word. He rubs his face, suddenly looking less like a global superstar and more like the boy who used to fall asleep mid-conversation on your couch.
“Seguí esperando dejar de comparar cada lugar contigo” he continues softly. “Cada ciudad, cada habitación de hotel, cada afterparty.” You lean against the counter because you don’t trust your legs anymore.
“And?” He laughs faintly, broken. “Gané el premio más importante de mi vida y lo único que quería era decírtelo primero.” The honesty strips the air thin. You don’t move closer but you don’t move away either.
“You shouldn’t need me like that anymore.”
“Nunca me detuve.” He looks smaller saying it, like the confession costs him pride he doesn’t care about tonight.
“Benito”
“Déjame quedarme un poco.” he murmurs quickly, almost afraid you’ll interrupt. “No voy a complicar las cosas. No te voy a pedir nada. Solo no quería estar solo mientras todo se sentía ruidoso.” His eyes flick to the door, a reflexive escape route then back to you.
“Puedo irme si quieres.” But he doesn’t move an inch. He won’t unless you say it. Your chest tightens painfully. “You’re barely standing.”
“He estado en escenarios más grandes que-”
“You’re swaying and you’re drunk.” That actually makes him smile faintly. “Yeah.”
You sigh pointing at your couch. “Sit.” Relief flickers across his face so openly it hurts to see. He sits on the couch immediately, elbows on knees, hands clasped like grounding himself. The room quiets around him. You bring him glass of water. He accepts it with both hands. “Gracias.”
He drinks slowly, eyes drifting around. Your bookshelves, the lamp you bought together, the dent in the coffee table he made years ago assembling furniture wrong.
“Lo guardaste.”
“You cried when you realized you built it upside down.” He chuckles under his breath. “Lo hice”
Silence again, softer this time.
“You look tired,” you say.
“I am.”
“Then you should sleep.” He nods but doesn’t move.
“Puedo dormir aquí?” He asks carefully looking at you with glassy eyes and you wonder if it was because of the alcohol or something else.
You hesitate only a second. “Bedroom. Couch will kill your back.” His eyes lift quickly, searching yours for hesitation. Finding none, something fragile eases in his expression.
“Okay.”
He walks slower down the hallway than he ever has, fingertips trailing the wall like memory mapping. When you open the bedroom door, he pauses in the frame. “No lo cambiaste mucho.”
“I didn’t want to.” He nods once, swallowing.
You pull back the covers so he can lie down.
“Shoes off.” He obeys instantly, sitting at the edge of the bed. The mattress dips under his weight. Familiar in a way that knocks the air from your lungs. He struggles with the jacket and you gently take over, sliding it off his shoulders. His head bows forward briefly when your fingers brush his collar.
“Lo siento” he whispers.
“For what?”
“Por hacer todo esto.” You don’t answer because of the lump that you felt in your throat.He lies down slowly, like he expects the moment to vanish if he moves too fast. You drape a blanket over him.
His hand catches your wrist before you can step away.
“Puedes quedarte?” The vulnerability in his voice breaks something you were carefully holding together. You sit beside him on the side of the bed that was always yours.
His grip loosens but doesn’t let go completely, fingers resting lightly against your sleeve. The room is dim. Streetlight coming through curtains. His breathing gradually steadies.
“You deserve tonight,” you whisper after a while. “Quería compartirlo contigo.” he murmurs, already drifting. Your chest aches as you looked at him in the dark room.
“I’m proud of you.” He smiles faintly without opening his eyes. “Ahora se siente real.” Minutes pass. Maybe longer. His breathing deepens, hand slackening but still touching yours like even asleep he refuses full distance.
You study his face the exhaustion under fame, the softness under the persona he made, the man who never learned how to celebrate without grounding himself in the one place he felt human.
He exhales slowly. “No desaparezcas de nuevo.” he murmurs, barely conscious. You freeze looking down at him. But he’s already asleep. You don’t say a word but you stay there, listening to him breathe, the Grammy sitting quietly in the other room and for the first time tonight, the noise of the world feels far away for both of you.
Summary: You try to hide away from jealousy that stirs in you the moment you see your best friend with another girl.
Warnings: slightly jealous!reader, friends to lovers no major warnings fluff. Google translate Spanish
The party is loud enough to blur into a single vibration, but inside his room the bass becomes a distant pulse like hearing the ocean from behind closed windows.
You sit on the edge of his bed wearing his hoodie that you stole years ago. Sleeves covering your hands, staring at the gold chain he left on the dresser.
He always takes it off when he’s tired.
That’s how you know tonight mattered to him not because of the crowd downstairs, not because of the artists who came, not even because of the cameras. Because he escaped to here. To you.
In the chaos and too loud music the door clicks shut behind him.
Benito leans back against it for a second, eyes closed, breathing slower than he had all night. Without the sunglasses and without the grin he performs for everyone else, he looks younger. Softer. Just Benito. The version of him that still forgets where he leaves his phone and hums melodies under his breath while brushing his teeth.
He notices you watching.
“Te estás escondiendo.” he murmurs.
Not accusing. Almost relieved.
You shrug slightly. Looking at him with with soft but tired eyes. “Just needed some space.”
A faint smile pulls at his mouth, but it fades quickly. He crosses the room and sits beside you. The mattress dips, your shoulders brushing automatically a contact so familiar you don’t move away anymore.
Except now your heartbeat reacts every time. And you don’t even remember when that started.
Maybe when strangers began touching his arm the way you used to without thinking.
Maybe when he stopped being reachable and started being scheduled.
Or maybe nothing changed at all. Maybe you just finally noticed what was always there.
Downstairs some girl shouts his name again, muffled through the floor.
He doesn’t react.
Your gaze drifts to his hands resting between his knees rings catching the dim light hands you’ve held in airports, during turbulence, in cars, during panic attacks he pretended he didn’t have.
You swallow. “A girl from earlier is looking for you,” you say quietly.
He doesn’t ask which one. Instead, he exhales through his nose and leans forward, elbows on thighs. “You didn’t like her.”
It’s not a question. You stare at the floor. “Didn’t matter.” A long silence stretches, thick and fragile.
He turns his head slightly toward you. “Te fuiste cuando ella me tocó.”
You shouldn’t feel exposed by that. “Didn’t want to be in the way.”
His brows knit faintly. He stared at you trying to make you finally look at him “Nunca has estado estorbando.”
You lifted your gaze from your hands and regret it instantly. Because he’s studying you too carefully. Not like a friend checking if you’re okay. Like someone trying to read a confession you haven’t said.
Your throat tightens. And shook your head quickly “Things change.”
“Cuándo fue que cambiamos?” The uncertainty in his voice almost hurts.
You laugh softly not amused. “You belong to the world now, Benito.”
His jaw shifts. He lets out a small scoff as if offendedby your words. “You think that?”
“I see it.” You sighed with a small shrug that meant more than your words.
People downstairs chanting lyrics. Cameras waiting outside restaurants. Girls memorizing his favorite drink. You used to be the one who knew those things. You used to be the one who knew everything about him.
He leans back, head tipping toward the ceiling, eyes half-lidded in thought.
Then quietly: “Eres el único lugar donde no siento que tengo que fingir.”
Your chest aches. “That doesn’t mean what it used to,” you whisper.
He turns toward you fully now. The air shifts uncomfortably around you.
“Entonces dime qué significa ahora.” He says and you could swore he sounded almost like he was begging.
You can’t. Because the answer sits somewhere between too much and too late.
You stand instead, pacing once across the room just to breathe. His scent lingers everywhere cologne, clean laundry, the faint sweetness of his shampoo. A space built around him, always somehow including you.
You stop near the dresser, fingers brushing his chai there.
“You should go back downstairs,” you murmur. “They came for you.”
He watches you not moving from the bed. “I’ve been with them all night.”
Your hand closes around the chain unconsciously. “They’re still waiting.”
“Me importa un carajo.”
You don’t turn around. Your pulse thunders in your ears. He stands slowly. The mattress shifts, footsteps quiet behind you, until you feel him close not touching yet just warmth at your back. Years of familiarity make your body lean before your brain allows it.
You stop yourself.
“Careful,” you whisper with closed eyes from the intensity of his presence behind you.
His voice lowers. “Estás temblando.”
You hadn’t noticed. Now you can’t ignore it.
“I don’t want to ruin this,” you admit, barely audible. A pause stretching too long.
Then softer than you’ve ever heard him: “Creo que hemos estado fingiendo que esto no se ha arruinado ya”
Your breath stutters and heart hammers in your chest. Because he’s right ruined in the sense that it stopped being simple a long time ago. Every hug held a second too long. Every goodbye lingered. Every date you tried felt unfair to the person across from you because part of you was somewhere else entirely.
Here. With him. You turn slowly with uncertainty. You’re close enough now that the gold chain dangles between you from your fingers, brushing his shirt.
His eyes drop to it, then back to yours.
“Odié verte esta noche.” he says. “No es por ellos. Es porque parecía que te ibas.”
You shake your head slightly. “I’m always here.”
His hand lifts hesitant resting lightly at your waist as if waiting for rejection. You don’t move. The contact sends warmth up your spine.
“You always are,” he murmurs agreeing with your words. “Y todavía me asusto.”
Benito fearless in stadiums, effortless in front of millions looks uncertain standing inches from you. It undoes you. Makes your heart want to burst out of your chest.
“Why?” you ask quietly.
His thumb presses faintly into the fabric at your side, grounding himself. “Porque algún día podrías decidir que ya no basta con que sea solo Benito.”
Your chest tightens painfully. “You’ve always been enough.” His gaze flickers to your lips quickly but you notice. Everything feels too fragile.
“Entonces, ¿por qué tengo la sensación de que te estás distanciando?” he whispers with that look on his face that made you want to cry.
Because staying feels dangerous. Because loving feels permanent. Because losing you would break something we couldn’t rebuild.
You don’t say any of it.
Instead you said shakily almost like a slip: “I don’t know how to be your best friend if I want more.”
The words fall into the room like glass. He inhales sharply. For a moment he just looks at you not shocked, not confused justrelieved. Relief softens his shoulders and worried frown on his fae.
“Finalmente” he breathes.
Your heart skips a beat. “Finally?”
“Pensé que estaba perdiendo la cabeza.” A small laugh escapes him shaky one. His forehead lowers until it nearly touches yours but pauses just short, giving you space to step back. You don’t.
“I tried dating,” he murmurs. “Probé con distracciones. Intenté convencerme de que solo eras… tú.”
His nose brushes yours accidentally and neither of you pulls away. “No sirvió.”
Your fingers clutch his shirt. “Benito…”
His eyes close briefly before opening again, searching yours carefully. “If you tell me to stop, I will.”
You know he means it. That’s what makes it impossible. You shake your head.
The distance disappears. The kiss is gentle not the explosion you feared, but something softer and heavier, like exhaling after holding breath for years. Familiar in a terrifying way, like finding a place you always belonged but never entered. His hand steadies at your waist, thumb moving slowly as if memorizing permission. You tilt closer instinctively.
He exhales against your mouth a quiet, almost disbelieving sound and the restraint loosens just slightly. The kiss deepens, still careful, still asking rather than taking. Your hands slide to his shoulders.
Warmth spreads through your chest, down your arms, everywhere he touches not urgency, not rushed hunger, but gravity pulling you toward him.
When you separate, foreheads resting together, neither of you opens your eyes immediately. “Tú sientes lo mismo.” he murmurs.
You laugh softly, breathless. “I’ve always felt the same.”
His hand moves to your cheek, thumb brushing slowly. For a moment nothing else exists. Not the party. Not the noise. Not the version of him the world claims. Just two people who never realized how much space they occupied in each other.
He kisses you again slower and this time you melt into him without hesitation, the years of almosts dissolving into something warm and steady. Not rushed. Not reckless. Just inevitable.
Somewhere downstairs, voices chant his name again. He doesn’t move. Your fingers lace with his as you rest against his chest, feeling his heartbeat fast, then gradually calmer syncing with yours.
There was a quiet understanding that nothing between you will ever be casual again and neither of you wants it to be.
Outside the door, the world waits for Bad Bunny. Inside his room Benito stays with you wrapped in his arms kissing the years that both of you thought were wasted.
Summary:You were by his side your whole life and one night he proves it was never enough
Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort Google translate Spanish
a/n: i got this idea so randomly today so i rushed to write something out of it i hope you’ll like it. if you have a request for another one my inbox is always open!!
The first time Benito ever held your hand, you were seven and he was eight, and he swore he’d punch your classmate for calling you frog-eyes.
He didn’t punch him. He cried instead when the teacher scolded him, and you gave him half your juice box through a bent straw, both of you sniffling in the corner of the hallway like the world had ended.
You’ve known him your whole life. Before the platinum records. Before the sold-out arenas and the way people say his name like it’s a brand instead of a boy.
Benito was just Benito for you. And he was yours before he was anybody else’s.
The fight starts small that evening. He’s pacing the living room of the house he bought two years ago. The one with the ocean view and the ridiculous white couches that you were too scared to sit on at first. He was on a call with his manager the moment you both got home and he was almost fuming with anger for a reason you couldn’t really hear.
He’s still in his shiny jewelry. Rings flashing when he drags his hands down his face. A chain glinting against his collarbone. He looks expensive. You’re barefoot, wearing one of his old tour hoodies that still smells faintly of his cologne.
“You didn’t have to leave early,” you say, trying to keep your voice soft. “It was just dinner.”
He laughs, sharp and humorless. “Just dinner. Yeah. With your friends.”
“They’re your friends too.”
“They weren’t asking me about music,” he snaps. “They were asking about brand deals. Who I could introduce them to.”
Your chest tightens uncomfortably at his sharp tone. “They were just joking.”
“They weren’t.” The air between you feels thick, wrong. This isn’t how you talk to each other. You’ve never needed to raise your voices. Not like this. “You think I don’t see it?” he continues. “The way people look at you now? The way they look at us?”
“I can’t control how people look at us.”
“Pero tú puedes controlar a quién traes alrededor mío.”
You stare at him as he purposely said it in Spanish letting you know how annoyed he was. “Are you kidding me? Now it’s my fault you’re famous?” He stops pacing. His jaw flexes too hard.
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Then what are you saying?” Uncomfortable silence filled the room making your skin crawl.
He looks at you like he’s measuring something. And then he says it. “I’m saying I don’t know if you’d still be here if I wasn’t who i am.”
It lands like a slap straight to your face. You blink almost confused never expecting words like that from him. “What?”
“Si todavía trabajara en la tienda de comestibles. Si no tuviera la casa, los carros, las giras, aun así estarías aquí?”
You feel your stomach drop through the floor staring at him like he was mentally unwell.
“You think I’m with you for that?”
“I don’t know,” he says. His voice is low now. Not loud. Worse. “Sometimes it feels like it.”
You laugh, but it comes out broken. “Are you serious?”
“Te gustan los viajes” He said it with venom in his voice that you never heard before “La ropa. La forma en que la gente te trata ahora.”
“Because I’m with you.”
“Exacto.”
The word slices. You take a step back like he’s physically pushed you. “I’ve known you since we were kids.”
“Y la gente cambia”
“So I changed?” Your voice trembles the way you couldn’t control it anymore. “That’s what you think?”
He doesn’t answer fast enough. And that’s your answer. “You think I’m using you?” you whispered in disbelief.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Te consiento. Te doy todo. A veces no sé si me amas a mí o lo que viene conmigo.”
The tears come before you can stop them. “You give me everything?” you repeat softly. “Benito, I never asked you for any of it.”
“No tienes que pedirlo.”
“That doesn’t mean I need it!”
“You don’t complain.” He scoffed like he was trying to prove his point. Your mouth falls open. “You think not complaining means I’m using you?”
“You like it.”
“I like you!” you say with desperation, voice cracking. “I liked you when you had one pair of sneakers and borrowed headphones.”
He looks away. “I stayed when you were broke” you continue. “When everyone said you were wasting your time. I stayed when you were playing shows for twenty people.”
He flinches like you offended him by reminding him the past. “I was there when you cried in my car because the label said no” you say. “I was there when you thought you’d never make it.”
“Y ahora estás aquí porque yo sí lo hice.” The way he said it so fast like he wasn’t even hesitating. The cruelty in it makes you physically recoil.
You stare at him like you don’t recognize him.
“That’s disgusting,” you breathe.
His voice rises again. “Crees que no veo cómo te tratan tus amigos ahora? Como si hubieras ganado la lotería? Como si hubieras hecho algo bien?”
“Is that my fault?”
“No, pero nunca dices nada”
“You want me to tell people I’m miserable? That being with you ruined my life?”
“Quiero saber que no estás aquí solo porque es cómodo!”
“Comfortable?” You let out a hysterical laugh. “Do you think this is comfortable? Being watched? Being picked apart? Having strangers talk about me like I’m a gold digger?”
His eyes flicker. “You’ve heard that?” he asks quietly referring to that one time when “his friends” talked about you behind my back with him on a party we both didn’t want to go to.
“Of course I have.” You wipe your cheeks angrily. “And I defended you. Every time. I said you weren’t like that. That you didn’t think like that.”
His silence is deafening. “You think I’d trade our childhood for a designer bag?” you whisper. “You think I’d trade the boy who walked me home every day for a headline?”
He stayed silent almost painfully and that hurts the most when he didn’t even tried to fix it.
“You know what I think?” you say, voice shaking but firm. “I think you’re pushing me away.”
His head snaps up. “No empieces.”
“You’re pushing me away before I can hurt you.”
“Stop.”
“You’re convinced I’m going to leave so you can leave first.”
“No me voy”
“You already are.” He stares at you like you’ve insulted him. “You just accused me of using you.”
“Eso no es lo mismo.””
“It feels like it.” You let out a scoff that physically hurt you. Your chest feels hollow. Like something inside you has caved in.
“You don’t trust me,” you say. He doesn’t deny it. And that’s the betrayal. The doubt in you.
After everything you did for him.
“You were the one person I thought would never look at me like that,” you whisper.
He swallows looking at you likehe regretted it fir a second. “Solo necesito saber.”
“You need to know?” Your voice rises again in anger. “After knowing me for twenty years?”
“No entiendes cómo es.”
“Then tell me!” He throws his hands up in frustration. “Todos quieren algo de mí!”
“I don’t!”
“How do I know that?” The words are loud. Ugly. They echo off the high ceilings. And something inside you breaks.
“You don’t,” you say softly. “If you don’t know that by now, you never will.”
The words turn messier. He says things he doesn’t mean. You say things you can’t take back. “Crees que soy tonto?” he demands.
“I think you’re being cruel.”
“Te gusta el estilo de vida!”
“So what if I do?” you snap. “So what if I like enjoying the life you build for us? That doesn’t mean I’d leave if you didn’t!”
“It’s easy to say that now!”
“It was easy to say that then too!” He laughs bitterly. “You didn’t have options then.”
The second it leaves his mouth, he regrets it.
You can see it. But it’s too late to take it back.
“You think I have options now?” you whisper. “You think people line up to be with me?” You aksed with a laugh that was felt like a cry.
“They look at you.”
“They look at you,” you fire back with voice raised and eyes full of fire. “And I’ve never once accused you of staying with me because I’m convenient.” He opens his mouth, then closes it.
You shake your head slowly. “You think I’m replaceable.”
“No.”
“Yes,” you say. “You know there’s a line of girls who’d kill to be in my place.”
“Sí, lo hay.”
“Then go fucking find one.” The silence after that is suffocating. You say it like you mean it.
He knows you don’t mean it. But neither of you take it back. He grabs his keys.
“Ofcourse you are leaving” You say with a scoff not looking at him anymore scared that you will break in front of him.
“Necesito espacio.” The words feel like another knife. “No puedo hacer esto ahora mismo.”
He hesitates at the door. For a second, you think he’ll come back. That he’ll drop the keys. That he’ll say he’s sorry. But the door shuts too loud. And you stand there in the quiet, realizing that for the first time in your life, Benito chose to leave you.
You don’t sleep. You sit on the kitchen floor until your legs go numb. You replay every moment of your relationship like it’s evidence in a trial. The first time he bought you too expensive necklace you told him he didn’t have to. The way you cried when he won his first award. The way you used to split dinner in highschool because that’s all you could afford.
Did you smile too wide when he surprised you with the car? Did you thank him wrong? Did you let him believe you expected it?
You think about how he looked at you tonight. Like you were a stranger. And that’s what hurt you the most. The fact that he put you in the same category as people who only see him just as a headline.
By four in the morning, the sky outside the windows is still dark. You haven’t moved and your phone sits on the counter. No texts. No calls. You wonder if he’s already with someone else. If he’s proving a point. If he’s trying to see how easy you are to replace.
The thought makes you physically ill. You don’t cry anymore. You feel empty. At five thirty, the first hint of light creeps over the ocean.
And then there’s a knock at the door. Your heart stops. For a second, you don’t move an inch.
Then it comes again more urgent. You knew it was him and he was banging on the door desperately. You stand slowly, legs stiff, and walk to the door. When you open it, he’s there.
He looks wrecked. He’s been crying. You can tell, you always could. The sunrise paints him in gold and pink, and he looks like the boy who once cried over juice box.
For a moment, neither of you speak. He looks at you like he’s afraid you won’t let him in. You step aside. He walks in slowly. The house feels different now. Quieter and smaller. He stands in the middle of the living room like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
“Lo siento” he says. His voice breaks on the second word like he wasn’t on the verge of tears. He doesn’t launch into excuses. He doesn’t even try to defend himself.
He just looks at you, eyes red. “Me equivoqué”
The words are simple. Heavy with honesty and regret.
“I hurt you.” You nod once. You can’t trust your voice. He doesn’t dare to step closer yet.
“I said things I didn’t mean.”
“You meant them,” you say softly.
He shakes his head. “Estaba enojado. Y lo descargué contigo.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“Lo sé” He runs a hand over his face. “Nunca me has usado”
You close your eyes briefly.
“I know that,” he continues. “I’ve always known that.”
“Then why—”
“Becaus I was being ugly,” he interrupts. “Y te convertí en la villana de una historia que no era tu culpa.”
You stare at him. “No creo que estés conmigo por dinero,” he says. “No creo que te importe eso más que yo. Sé que no.”
The sun is higher now, light spilling across the floor between you. “Eres la única persona que me conoció desde antes” he says quietly looking at the floor now while begging you for forgiveness. “Me amaste antes que nadie.”
Your throat tightens.
“Y te traté como si fueras solo otra persona tratando de quitarme algo.”
You wipe the salty tears from your face. “That’s what broke me,” you admit. “You looked at me like I was a stranger.”
He steps closer carefully measuring his stepts.
“You’re not,” he says. “Nunca has estado”
“Then don’t ever say that again,” you whisper. “Don’t ever make me feel like I have to prove myself to you.”
He nods immediately. “No lo haré.”
“You don’t get to question my love like that.”
“Lo sé.”
“You don’t get to throw our whole life in my face because you’re angry.”
“Lo sé mi amor.” His voice is steady now with so much regret in it. Not defensive and angry
Just honest.
“He sido cruel” he says. “Y no lo merecías”
The simplicity of it makes your chest ache. You step closer too. “I don’t care about the money,” you say. “I care about you. I always have.”
He nods like he’s absorbing it, like he’s memorizing it. “I don’t want the house if it means you don’t trust me,” you continue. “I don’t want the trips if you think they’re the only reason I’m here.”
“No lo son” he says quickly. “Sé que no lo son.”
Silence settles again, but this time it’s softer.
He reaches for your hand slowly, giving you time to pull away. You don’t. His fingers wrap around yours, warm and familiar. “No quiero perderte” he says.
“You almost did.” The words hits him right to his chest almost immediately the truth in them makes him even more terrified. He squeezes your hand hard like he wasn’t trying to keep you there with him.
“I know.” You look at hih. The same boy who once held your hand in a classroom, who once cried over rejection letters and promised he’d always walk you home.
He looks terrified now. Not of losing fame. Not of losing money. Of losing you. You step into him. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath all night. His arms wrap around you tightly, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
You bury your face in his chest and let the tears you quietly held in fell onto your cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into your hair.
“I know.”
“Te amo.”
The words don’t feel like a performance. They feel raw. “I love you too,” you whisper.
He pulls back slightly, hands coming up to cradle your face. His thumbs brush away your tears.
“Soy estúpido” he says softly. You nod your head once. A faint, broken smile flickers across his mouth. Then he leans in. The kiss isn’t rushed or heated. It’s desperate for forgiveness and soft at the same time. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you again after leaving for less than two hours.
Like he’s apologizing with his mouth because words aren’t enough. You kiss him back with everything you have left. All the years and memories that to this day made both of you smile. His hands tremble slightly against your cheeks. When he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours.
“Nunca quiero hacerte sentir así de nuevo.” he says looking in your eyes like he is ready to drop all of his fame to make you smile again.
“Then don’t.”
He nods. The sun fills the room completely now, washing away the shadows. You’re still hurt deep down. He’s still ashamed. But you’re here in your house. Together. And this time, when he holds your hand, it doesn’t feel like something he’s afraid of losing. It feels like something he knows he has to keep.
Summary: He needs salsa lessons and you are there to help him
Warnings: smut, oral sex (f!receiving), mirror sex, bit of dirty talk
a/n: this is first smut i’ve ever written so bear with me🤟🤟🤟
Your studio smelled faintly of polished wood and warm lights late evening heat trapped between mirrors and speakers. You shouldn’t have booked him this late. Not alone. But he insisted like always.
Benito leaned against the wall when you entered, hoodie already half-unzipped like he’d been pacing for a while. Not nervous more like excited. He watched you the same way he had for years: too long, too aware, like he memorized your movements before they happened.
You dropped your bag on the perfectly polished floor. Professional. Just an instructor. Nothing else.
“El video necesita salsa.” he said, while you were tying your hair up. “So we start basic.” You said already playing the playlist you made for the lesson. He nodded, but didn’t look convinced. He looked at you like learning how to dance wasn’t the only reason he came.
You stepped close and he placed his hand at your shoulder blade. “No. Here.” You moved it slightly lower down you spine.
He swallowed looking down at you like you were explaining something sacred to him. “Relax your fingers,” you murmured, adjusting them again. “You keep gripping like you’re afraid I’ll bite.”
He let out a huffed laugh and shrugged his shoulders like your words didn’t make his mind wander in some places but he didn’t step back.
The music started slow percussion, deliberate rhythm and you guided him into the first steps. His other hand held yours, but his palm was too warm, too firm, sliding a little when you spun under his arm.
You corrected it again. “And here,” you said, moving his hand at your waist. He didn’t dare let go this time. Your back met his chest as you showed him the next step, your hips moving to demonstrate timing. You felt the way his breathing changed not out of rhythm, but following your hips with his own instead of the beat.
“Focus on the steps.” But your voice wasn’t steady anymore. You stepped away to held distance. He pulled you back immediately not rough, just instinctive his hand landing at your hip again, higher now. “Too high,” you whispered, adjusting it taking it in your palm and changing its position.
His thumb traced the line where you’d placed it. The music kept playing. You tried to guide him through a spin combination, but he stopped halfway, keeping you close instead of releasing you on the turn. Your chest brushed his, and the mirrors around the room trapped the moment. Neither of you moved. “Benito…”
It was more of a warning than a protest. His jaw tightened. He watched your mouth like he had a thousand times before and never allowed himself to finish the thought. Your hand was still in his. You should have let go. You tried to step back to demonstrate again. He followed instead of releasing. The movement turned into a slow sway instead of choreography, his hand spreading at the small of your back like he finally placed it where he’d always wanted.
You corrected him automatically, but your fingers lingered over his wrist. “Still wrong,” you breathed.
“Entonces arréglalo.” Barely a sentence but the way he said it like a command made your stomach flip. You slid his hand lower to proper frame position but he turned his palm and caught your waist instead, pulling you flush against him in one motion that wasn’t part of any lesson.
The music kept counting the soft rythm but neither of you moved. Your fingers curled into his hoodie instinctively as balance shifted into closeness. His forehead touched yours, slow and heavy, like he’d run out of patience years ago and just now acted on it.
The sudden press of his lips wasn’t gentle. It started like a decision neither of you planned to make. Sudden, searching, almost relieved that you immediately kissed him back. His other hand found your waist instinctively, pulling you closer while yours slid up into the back of his curls.
Warmth surged through your chest in a wave that felt less like surprise and more like inevitability finally catching up. He paused once just long enough to check and when you leaned forward again chasing his lips the hesitation disappeared completely. Your back met the mirror softly. The cool glass contrasted sharply with the heat of his hands and you exhaled against his mouth, fingers gripping his shirt as if the dance had simply changed form instead of stopped.
Everything felt louder now. Breathing, fabric shifting and his hoodie hitting the floor as you pulled it off, the faint echo of music still playing in the background. The world narrowed to contact and the steady rhythm you were both still unconsciously following.
He swiftly moved his lips to your jaw and neck, biting and licking with an intensity that ignited every nerve ending in your body. The heat between you was palpable, electric, as his kisses trailed down to the sensitive skin just below your ear. Each touch sent shivers down your spine, and you instinctively arched into him, craving more.
His hands roamed possessively over your body like he wanted to do it since he laid his eyes on you months ago, fingers gripping your hips as he stood with you facing the mirror. The sight was jarring yet exhilarating, heightening your senses. You could feel the weight of his body, his warmth enveloping you, and the world outside faded into a distant hum.
“Benito” you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper, filled with urgency and longing. He looked up at you, his dark eyes filled with desire, and the intensity of his gaze made your heart race even faster. “Mírate en el espejo” he murmured, his voice low and husky. It was a command wrapped in a caress, urging you to look up at your flushed face. As he trailed his kisses lower, his hands slid beneath your shirt, fingers grazing your skin with an exquisite pressure. You shuddered at the sensation, every inch of you responding to his touch. He paused at your collarbone, his lips lingering there as he savored you, and you could feel the tension building between you, an overwhelming mix of hunger and anticipation.
Then, without warning, he dropped to his knees, his hands gripping your thighs as he pulled you closer to him. The world around you vanished, leaving only the two of you in this intimate bubble. You gasped, feeling his breath hot against your core, and your body responded instinctively, aching for him.
His hands trailed the hem of the frilly skirt you wore and undid the straps of it, letting it fall to your feet. You looked down at him as he hooked his fingers in the waistband of your panties and pulled them down as well. His hands immediately went to your thigh and hooked it on his shoulder. His lips pressed first against your knee, teasing you just to move it higher to your thighs. After a few seconds of that absolute torture his mouth found you, soft yet insistent, kissing and licking in a way that made your head spin. You grabbed his curls in your hands and looked down, seeing the way he savored you, his expression one of pure pleasure and desire. It was overwhelming, and you felt yourself losing control, your body arching towards him as he explored every sensitive inch.
“Please” you whispered, the word slipping past your lips without thought, a plea for more. He responded by intensifying his movements, his tongue swirling and teasing your clit, driving you closer to the edge. Each flick sent waves of pleasure coursing through you, and you could feel the heat pooling deep within.
“Déjame escucharte” he urged, his tone both commanding and enticing. You could hardly form words, your breath coming in gasps as he coaxed you higher. The sensation was exquisite, the electric feeling moving through you, and just when you thought you couldn’t take any more, he pulled back, his lips glistening and a wicked grin on his face.
“Mírate” he demanded, looking up at you with that same intense gaze, urging you to look higher in the mirror watching yourself shaking from pleasure. With a final flick of his tongue, the world shattered around you. Pleasure crashed over you like a wave, leaving you breathless and trembling, your fingers gripping his hair as you rode his face to chase the waves of ecstasy.
He didn’t stop, riding out your high, his lips and tongue working you through the aftershocks. The mirrors reflected every moment, amplifying the intensity of what you were experiencing. You could see the way his eyes lit up, drinking in your pleasure, and it only added fuel to the fire.
Finally, as the waves began to fade, he pulled back, his mouth glistening with you, satisfaction radiating from him. You were breathless, holding up with your hands against the mirror for support, the reality of what had just happened settling in. The connection between you felt palpable, and you knew this was just the beginning.
“Benito,” you breathed, your heart racing as you looked down at him, your body still tingling from the aftershocks. He stood, towering over you, his hands finding your waist again, pulling you closer, as if he couldn’t get enough.
“Quieres más?”he asked, his voice low, teasing. You nodded eagerly still catching your breath, trying to regain your composure. He smiled, that wicked grin spreading across his face, and you felt a rush of heat flood your cheeks.
“Good,” he purred, and then, with a swift motion, he lifted you, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he pressed you back against the mirror. The cool surface sent another wave of shivers through you, but the heat radiating from his body calmed it entirely.
He kissed you again, deep and possessive, his hands gripping your thighs as if to pull you closer to him. You could feel the hardness of him against you, a reminder of just how much he wanted you. With deliberate slowness, he turned you both, so you faced the mirror, your reflection staring back at you, wide-eyed and filled with desire. You could see the way he looked at you, the way his hands roamed over your body, exploring every curve and contour. Your skin glowed in the dim light, and you felt powerful, beautiful as he admired you.
He unzipped his pants and pulled his boxers down just to free him completely. He slowly teased you moving his lenght up and down your wetness. “Just like this,” he murmured, his hands finding your waist, guiding you back against him. You could feel his breath against your neck, hot and heavy, and you shivered at the sensation. “Quiero que veas cuánto te necesito”
He began to move inside you, his body pressing you into the mirror, and the friction sent waves of pleasure radiating through you. You could see the way his muscles tensed as he ground against you, the way his lips parted slightly as he breathed. You wanted to touch him, to explore him, but he held you firmly in place, a playful grin on his lips.
“Aún no” he teased, nipping at your ear before trailing kisses down your neck. You moaned softly, the sensation building again, and you could feel the heat pooling low in your belly. “Benito, please” you begged, your voice a mix of urgency and need. He chuckled, the sound low and sultry, and you could see the amusement in his eyes as he continued to tease you, his hips moving in slow, deliberate circles.
“Dime qué quieres” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. You hesitated, your mind racing with desire, and you could feel the frustration building as he continued to grind against you, slowly, teasingly.
“Faster” you finally said, your voice breathless and frustrated, and you could see the way his eyes sparkled at your words.
“Entonces, hagámoslo” he replied, his voice filled with a promise that sent another shiver down your spine. With a swift motion, he turned you again, positioning you so that your back was to the mirror, and you could see the heat radiating off him. He leaned in, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss that made your head spin, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he pressed against you.
He looked into your eyes, searching for something, and when he found it, he pushed forward, filling you completely. The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and pain, and you could feel your body stretching to accommodate him. You gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders as you adjusted to his size.
“Solo respira” he murmured, his voice low and reassuring as he held you tightly. You could see the way he struggled to hold back, the tension in his body fought against the urge to move.
Finally, when you nodded, signaling that you were ready, he began to move, “Dios, estás tan apretada” he groaned, his voice strained as he picked up the pace, driving deeper with each thrust. The pleasure built rapidly, and you could feel the heat pooling low in your belly again, the rhythm of his body against yours sending you spiraling closer to the edge.
“Benito, yes” you gasped, your breath hitching as he hit that sweet spot deep inside you. You could see the way his eyes darkened with desire, the raw intensity of the moment reflected in the mirror, and it only pushed you further toward the brink.
You could feel the tension building, the world around you fading as you focused solely on the pleasure he was giving you.
“Míranos” he urged, his voice low and sultry, and you forced your head to the back to meet his reflection. The sight was intoxicating; the way he held you, the way your bodies moved together, it was everything you had ever wanted.
“Así nomás” he encouraged, his breath coming in ragged gasps. You could see the way his muscles strained, the way his eyes locked onto yours, and it pushed you closer to the edge.
“Benito, I’m so close,” you gasped, your voice barely above a whisper. He picked up the pace even more, his thrusts becoming harder, more desperate, and you could feel the heat coiling tighter and tighter within you.
“Ven por mí” he urged, his voice a low growl as he drove deeper, hitting that spot again and again. “Quiero sentirte venir sobre mí”
With a final, deep thrust, you shattered, the world around you exploding as pleasure crashed over you like a wave. You cried out his name, your body trembling as you rode the waves of ecstasy. The mirrors captured every moment, every gasp and shudder showing the intensity of your release. He followed shortly after, his body tensing as he found his own release, thrusting deep into you, his growl of pleasure echoing in the room. You could feel him filling you, the heat of him mixing with yours, and it sent another wave of bliss coursing through you.
As the waves of pleasure began to fade, he held you close, your bodies entwined as you both came down from the high. You could see the satisfaction etched on his face, the way his eyes sparkled as he looked at you.
“Damn,” he breathed, his voice low and filled with awe. You smiled, still breathless, your heart racing as you leaned in to capture his lips again, sealing the moment with a kiss that was soft yet filled with promise. You could feel the connection between you, the heat still radiating as the world slowly came back into focus. The mirrors reflected not just your bodies, but the undeniable chemistry that had ignited between you, a flame that would only continue to burn brighter.
When you both took time to catch your breaths you notice the music looped back to the beginning, reality slipped in with the rhythm. You stepped back just enough to put your skirt back on with your fingers still hooked lightly in his sleeve before releasing.
You cleared your throat, trying to regain composure. “From the top,” you said, voice softer than before.
He watched you for a moment and then laughed nodding his head pulling his boxers and pants back on. You stepped forward and placed his hand correctly on your back again.
This time he didn’t move it. You guided him through the pattern turn, cross, step and now he followed perfectly, because he was watching you instead of thinking. Every movement matched the music naturally, bodies moving as one line instead of two people counting beats. At the final dip, you hesitated.. He caught you smoothly, holding you low, closer than choreography required but controlled and careful. The tension remained, quieter now, settled instead of explosive.
The song ended with a quiet hum. Neither of you let go immediately. You finally straightened and adjusted his hands once more unnecessarily. “Perfect,” you said.
And for the first time all night, you didn’t mean the dance.
Summary: By saying yes to a coffee you didn’t expect a plan and remembered details
a/n: I had absolute blast writing this. I hope you’ll like it<3
The café is so normal it almost feels staged.
Not cute-normal. Not indie slow music-aesthetic normal. Just simple laminated menus, slightly uneven tables and small pastry case that hums louder than any conversation around it. The kind of place people sit in for twenty minutes and never remember again.
You stand outside for a full ten seconds before going in anyway. You told him yes. You repeated it in your head on the train here like you might accidentally change your mind halfway through the ride. You didn’t. But your hands are still cold even though it’s not a cold day.
He said boring. So this is boring. You push the door open. The bell above it rings. Sharp, and unmistakable. You immediately spot him because of course you do. He’s sitting at a small table near the window, elbows on the table, studying the menu like it’s complicated enough to require his full concentration. Baseball cap, plain jacket, nothing remarkable except the way he keeps glancing toward the door every few seconds without trying to look like he’s waiting.
He notices you exactly when you notice him noticing you. His face changes in a way you’ve only seen backstage. Not the performance smile, not the polite one for strangers. Something looser. Relieved that he finally saw you.
He stands immediately. You almost turn around out of instinct, like you’ve walked into the wrong room with thought to just run away.
“Hi,” he says. “Hi.” You tuck your hands into your sleeves. “I wasn’t sure if—”
“I got here early,” he admits quickly. “Like very early. I didn’t want to risk being late.”
You blink. “You’re never late.”
That makes him smile like he realized you take time to observe what he does.
He pulls the chair out for you, then hesitates like he’s worried it might be too much. You sit anyway. It steadies him just a little bit. “Okay,” he says, sitting down across from you. “So far this is good. Nobody screamed.”
“You picked a good spot.”
“I walked into five others first,” he admits with a laugh that you could swore you wanted to hear again. “Too quiet. Too loud. This one seemed like the safest choice.”
You glance around. An older man reading a newspaper. Two students sharing milkshake. Someone argues quietly about the amount of oat milk in their coffee.
“It is.” He exhales like a mission accomplished. “Perfect.”
For a moment neither of you speak. You’ve talked to him a hundred times. Quick sentences and practical questions. But this feels different. Nothing to fix, no countdown to a cue, no one standing five feet away already screaming to move faster.
He notices your hands again. “You’re nervous.”
You almost deny it automatically, then stop yourself. “A little.” You shrugged like it meant nothing.
He nods like that’s the correct answer. “Me too.”
“You don’t look nervous.”
“I rehearsed normal behavior on the walk here.” You laugh before you could stop yourself. “How’d it go?”
“I think people were concerned by a man talking to himself on a street.”
You press your lips together, trying not to laugh louder, and he visibly relaxes again. The waitress comes. You both order coffee. You choose the simplest thing possible so you don’t have to think about it. He orders the same after a quick glance at you like he’s copying homework.
“You don’t like coffee.” you say once she leaves. He chuckles and shrugs. “I drink coffee.”
“You spill coffee.” You reminded him.
“That too.”
“You always switch to tea halfway through.”
He leans back in his chair, studying you. Not intensely.Just thoughtful. “You remember small things,” he says.
“That’s my job.” You tried to explain yourself at how many things you noticed about him.
“No,” he says softly. “That one wasn’t work.”
You look down at the table, tracing a faint scratch in the menu. You don’t answer. The coffees arrive. He stares at his like it personally offended him. You take a sip. Too hot. You set it down. He copies you exactly.
There’s a pause. Not awkward more careful like both of you wanted to say too much thoughts at once.
“So,” he says, folding his hands. “No stage. No rack. No countdown clocks. What do you talk about?”
You shrug. “Usually I listen.” He nods slowly. “Okay. I’ll talk then.”
You glance up, surprised. He smiles slightly. “I don’t want you to have to work tonight.” Something in your chest tightens at that phrasing.
He starts small. The flight delays on the way back. The guitarist who always fights. The weird stuff people ask him to do on daily basis. He talks like he’s trying to fill silence but not forcing it. He watches your reactions, adjusts pace when you look like you want to say something giving you the space to do so or pauses when you lean forward slightly.
You realize about ten minutes in he’s not rambling. He’s trying. “You don’t have to try to impress me,” you say quietly.
He considers that. “I know.”
“but you are.” He shrugs once, almost shy despite himself and the persona he created around himself. “I want this to feel real.”
Your fingers tighten around the cup. “It does.”
He seems relieved again like your words lifted some weight from his chest. You talk more after that. Not deep things, not big confessions. Just small stories. Music you listened to growing up. His favorite places in Puerto Rico. The first job you hated. The first city he remembers actually liking rather than performing in. The way touring makes days blur into one long afternoon.
You catch yourself forgetting he’s famous. Not because he wants you to forget but because he doesn’t occupy space the same way here. He doesn’t perform reactions. He waits for yours.
At one point your sleeve slides up when you reach for sugar and he notices faint pinpricks on your fingers. “From sewing?” he asks. You nod quick looking up.
He leans forward slightly. “Does it hurt?”
“Only if I think about it.” He reaches across the table before thinking, then pauses halfway like he’s giving you time to stop him. You don’t.
His thumb brushes lightly across the side of your finger careful but the contact is warmer than you expected like a soft caress of something too gentle to be real.
He pulls back after a second of silence. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” You both look at your coffees for a moment. He clears his throat. “I had a whole plan for today.”
“You planned this?”
“Very seriously.” He gestures around the small space. “Step one neutral location. Step two don’t scare you away.”
“I wasn’t scared.” You chuckled looking down as you felt your cheeks getting a bit more pink because ofcourse you were scared and he saw right through you.
“You were prepared to be.” You can’t argue with that, so you don’t.
“And step three?” you ask. He smiles faintly. “Walk.”
“Walk?”
He nodded looking at you with hopeful eyes. Maybe silently begging you will go with him or that you wont laugh out his idea. But you actually like that more than you want to admit. “Okay.”
He pays before you can even think of reaching your wallet. Not flashy, wordless like he couldn’t even imagine it other way and he obviously held the door open when you leave.
The air outside is softer, late afternoon turning toward evening. People pass without recognition. The normality feels almost surreal after weeks of controlled backstage spaces.
You walk beside each other, not touching, matching pace automatically. For a few minutes neither of you talks. The city noise fills it easily.
The street narrows. You step closer automatically to avoid someone’s dog and don’t move away right after. He notices and he smiled like he was waiting for that moment.
“I wasn’t really sure if you meant coffee as a date,” you admit after a minute maybe a bit too bold and unexpected.
“I didn’t want to assume you’d say yes if I called it one.”
“And now?” He exhales slowly. “Now I hope it was.” You nod, small but clear. “Yeah it was.”
That seems to settle something in him. His shoulders loosen. They brush once when the sidewalk narrows again. Neither of you apologizes when your shoulders brushed and stayed close.
You pass a bookstore window. He stops. “Wait.” He looks at the display like he’s genuinely considering it, then glances at you. “Do you read during tours?”
You look at him with wide eyes because there is absolutely no way he noticed a new book you had every week while being on tour. “When I have time.” You said like it’s nothing but it made your stomach flip. He steps inside without overthinking and holds the door for you again.
It smells like paper and dust. You wander separate aisles at first, then end up beside each other again near the back. He picks up a book, flips it open, frowns in concentration.
“Choosing something?” you ask.
“I don’t want to pick wrong.”
“It’s a book, not surgery.”
He hands it to you. “You pick.” You stare at it. “Why?”
“So next time we meet I’ll have something to talk about what you love and that isn’t work”
You look up at him. There’s no teasing in it. He’s building continuity on purpose. You choose one without overthinking and give it back with a smile that was almsot hurting your cheeks.
He smiles like you handed him a plan. After you left the store the walk slows without either of you deciding it should. At the corner near the station you both stop naturally, like the evening reached its logical end.
“My train’s that way,” you say. “Yeah.” Neither of you moves. He shifts his weight slightly. More confident than earlier but careful with it. “I had one more step in the plan,” he says.
Your heartbeat picks up despite yourself. “What step?” He studies your face for a second not dramatic, just making sure you’re still here with him.
“The part where I ask if I can kiss you.” Your breath catches, small and embarrassing. You nod once, then once more more confident because the first was too small and unsure. He steps closer, slow enough you could step back. You don’t even think about moving. His hand pauses near your sleeve before resting lightly at your wrist. The same place he stopped you from giving back the hoodie weeks ago like he remembers exactly how much contact you accept without retreating.
“Okay?” he asks quietly.
“Okay.” The kiss isn’t rushed or cinematic fireworks. Just warm and deliberate, brief at first like he’s checking the reality of it, then slightly firmer when you don’t pull away. His thumb shifts once against your wrist and your shoulders relax without permission.
You placed your hands on his shoulders and when he kissed you just a bit harder your palms fell to his chest.
You both pull away at the same time looking in each other eyes just catching a breath. You feel it before it happens again. The warmth of his lips and the shift of air. You don’t brace for it the way you expected. His lips meet yours deeper than before, like he’s trying to remember that feeling forever.
You lean in closer. Your hand lifts without permission, gently catching his dark curls between your fingers. You only realize you did it when your fingers curl there, and for half a second you freeze but he doesn’t react like it surprised him. If anything, his shoulders ease and he lets himself let out a hum of satisfaction into your lips.
The kiss deepens gradually, naturally, not dramatic just longer. You feel the careful way he tilts his head so you don’t have to adjust, the pause he leaves every few seconds like he’s checking you’re still choosing this. Your nerves disappear leaving you dizzy from the way he was kissing you.
When you shift closer, barely a step, his hand moves from your elbow to your waist. Still light, but the contact sends a sharp warmth up to your spine.
You hadn’t expected kissing him to feel this calm. Familiar in a way that doesn’t make sense yet. You exhale softly against his mouth, and he smiles into the kiss before pulling back a fraction, forehead almost touching yours.
When he pulls back you both stay close for a second longer than necessary.
You exhale a small laugh you didn’t plan. He smiles, softer than any stage expression you’ve seen. “I really didn’t want to mess that up.”
“You didn’t.”
He looks relieved in a way that makes you warmer than the kiss did.
“And i really like kissing you” He said with a stupid smile as you coudn’t helo but laugh and nodded your head in agreement.
A train passes distantly below street level. The normal world resumes around you.
He steps back just enough to give space but not distance. “Can I walk you down?” You nod.
After he pulled his cap on his head he grabbed your hand in his and started walking as you didn’t take it away. When you walked to the train station you turn toward him fully. The station light is harsher than outside; it makes everything clearer. The slight crease at the corner of his eyes from smiling too much today and the way he keeps his shoulders relaxed on purpose so you don’t feel cornered.
Your hands are still linked between you. Neither of you comments on it. “So this is the part where normal people say goodnight,” you say.
“Yeah.” He nods once, then adds, “I’d like a version where normal includes seeing you again.”
Your chest tightens not startled or nervous this time. “We can try.” A flicker of relief crosses his face again, quick but honest. “Okay.”
The announcement for your train sounds overhead. You don’t move yet. He glances at the gates, then back at you. “I don’t want the next time to depend on another tour city.”
“It won’t,” you say. You mean it before thinking about logistics, which feels unlike you and exactly right.
You slowly slip your hand from his not pulling away, just turning your palm so your fingers slide against his. The absence of warmth is immediate and noticeable. His hand stays where it was for a second, like he’s letting the moment end at your speed. You step toward the gate, then pause.
You’re not good at big gestures. You never have been. But leaving like any other night suddenly feels wrong. You turn back and lean in, pressing a brief kiss to his cheek soft and certain, your choice this time.
He goes still in surprise, then smiles as you pull away. “Text me when you get home,” he says, not as a request but a hope he’s trying not to sound attached to.
“I will.” You swipe your ticket and walk through the gate, then look back once from the other side. He’s still there, hands in his pockets now, cap pulled low not performer, not watched. Just a guy waiting to make sure you are safe.
You lift your hand slightly. He mirrors it.
The train arrives with a rush of air. Doors open. You step inside and find a seat by the window. For a moment the reflection hides him, then shifts and he’s visible again on the platform, exactly where you left him. You don’t wave this time. You just hold his gaze until the doors close. As the train pulls away, he finally moves, and you shrink into the distance of ordinary life street level above, café somewhere behind you, the evening continuing for everyone else exactly the same.
For the first time since the tour ended, the quiet doesn’t feel like an ending. It feels like something starting slow, and entirely yours.
You lean your head lightly against the window thinking when you will see him again not being aware that he already made multiple calls demanding bringing you back on his next leg of the tour with him.
Summary: In your relationship tension was always stronger than hatred
Warnings: enemies with tension, google translate Spanish
a/n: my inbox is always open so if you have any requests i would be more than happy to write it<3
The first time you saw Bad Bunny written in big letters on a billboard in Times Square, your stomach twisted so violently you thought you might actually throw up.
Not because you were surprised. Because of course it was him.
Bentito. The boy who used to sit few rows behind you in school and whisper insults in Spanish just low enough for only you to hear. The boy who would laugh too loud when you messed up during presentations. The boy who had eyes too beautiful for someone so infuriating.
You hated him before you even knew what hate meant. And he hated you right back.
It had been competition from the start. Grades, attention, talent shows, who could command a room better. He’d mock your lyrics, you’d call his music boring. He’d roll his eyes when you walked in the room. You’d pretend he didn’t exist.
But pretending didn’t work for a long time.
Because even then, there was something else underneath. Something sharp. Something dangerous that both of you felt.
Now years later, both of you famous in your own lanes, invited to the same afterparties, photographed in the same flashing lights. The hatred hadn’t died.
It had matured. Became sharper. Turned into something thick and intoxicating.
You feel it the second you step into the private rooftop lounge in Miami. The music vibrating through your ribs, the skyline glowing gold and electric around you.
And then you see him. White crisp suit. Rings flashing in the light. Curls falling just enough over his forehead. That lazy, arrogant posture like the whole world was in his hands.
His eyes find you instantly. Of course they do. They darken too dangerously for someone who claimed to hate you. The smirk that curves his mouth isn’t friendly. It isn’t polite. It’s a challenge that he would always throw your way, curious if you would take it.
Your chest tightens uncomfortably at his gaze. Heat floods your veins so fast it almost feels like anger but it’s not the clean, familiar anger you’ve carried for years. It’s heavier. You try to ignore him. You really do. You turn your body away, letting out a fake loud laugh at something someone says, take a sip of your drink you don’t even taste.
But you can feel him looking at you. Feel it like his fingertips touching your skin. When he finally approaches, the air shifts around you. He doesn’t greet you. Doesn’t say hello. He just stands too close like he knew it would make you want to kill him with your bare hands.
“Sigues fingiendo que no te gusta estar en la misma habitación conmigo?” he murmurs, voice low, roughened by years and fame and too many late sleepless nights.
Your jaw tightens the way it almost hurt. “Still pretending you don’t follow my every move?”
His eyes flash with irritation, a bit if amusement, and something darker that you couldn’t really name. The tension between you could be cut with knife now. It presses cold against your skin, crawls up your spine. You’ve stood this close to him before. At award shows and backstage corridors while bickering about his music. But tonight feels different.
Tonight it feels like something is going to snap.
“Siempre has sido así.” he says softly. “Acting like I’m your enemy.”
“You are.” But your voice shakes. And he notices immediately.
His gaze drops to your mouth for half a second too long. It’s maddening. The hammering of your heart is annoying you because he shouldn’t be affecting you that much.
“Sabes lo que pienso?” He says with that smile that you wanted to wipe off his face. You don’t respond. “Creo que odias que vea la manera en que me miras. Incluso cuando éramos más jóvenes. Yo te veía.” Your heartbeat slams against your ribs almost taking away your last breath.
You remember every look across classrooms. Every argument that felt too personal. Every insult that lingered too long and too close to heart. You step closer before you can stop yourself. “You don’t get to rewrite history.”
“I’m not” he says with a lazy shrug that made your blood boil. “Estoy diciendo que quizá no fue odio.”
The word hangs between you. Your pulse roars in your ears. The city lights blur behind him.
You want to shove him. You want to scream at him.
Instead, you grab the collar of his white button up. It’s not graceful. It’s not gentle. It’s years of rivalry and resentment and unresolved tension crashing together.
“Don’t,” You breathe looking in his eyes. His hand comes to your waist automatically firm, grounding, like he’s done it a thousand times in his head. The contact burns too much.
Your body betrays you instantly, melting into the heat of him even while your mind screams.
“Lo notaste?” He whispers looking down at you with his lips inches away from yours.
You do feel it. The hatred has sharp and ugly edges. This doesn’t. This is almost gentle.
“Siempre me has mirado como si quisieras estrangularme.” he says with that smile that you swore you hated years ago.
“Maybe I did.”
“O tal vez querías que estuviera tan cerca.” And that’s it. The last thing thread snaps.
You tugged his collar so he would lean closer and you kiss him like you’re still angry. It’s far away from soft. It’s not careful. It’s a collision of years spent in pent up tension.
Your hands fist in his jacket, his grip tightens at your waist, pulling you flush against him. The world narrows to the heat of his mouth, the way he exhales sharply when your lips press harder, like he’s been holding this in for years.
There’s frustration in it as well as relief.
You kiss like enemies who never stopped watching each other. Like every insult was just a foreplay. His other hand slides up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as if he can’t decide whether to hold you steady or pull you closer to his body.
You break apart only to take a breath, foreheads pressed against each other, both of you shaken.
“You drive me insane.” You whisper into his lips
His lips brush yours again, slower this time. “Sé que por eso te encanta tanto.”
His confidence should make you furious. Instead it makes your stomach flip. The rooftop noise comes rushing back around you, but it feels distant now. He looks at you differently.
Not like a rival or someone who was a threat in your head. Like someone who has been circling you for years and finally caught what he wanted.
“No me odias.” He says quietly looking at you like he knew the truth this whole time.
You search his face. The arrogance softened, the challenge replaced with something vulnerable and dangerous.
“No,” you admit, breath unsteady. “I don’t.”
He smiles at your words. Not the smirk from billboards or interviews. Something real. Something almost shy beneath all the show off.
“Nunca lo hiciste.”
You roll your eyes weakly letting out a chuckle. “Don’t get too cocky now.”
He laughs warm and satisfied. Then he pulls you back into him, this time without rage. Just heat and certainty he finally found.
The hatred that defined you both dissolves into something sweeter, something just as intense but no longer sharp enough to cut
There’s no cinematic confession. Just the heat that lingers, the knowledge that everything you thought you hated was never that simple.
“Vamos a ver cuánto aguantas con esa actitud conmigo esta noche.”” he says, stepping back enough to let the air between you thrum with tension again.
You straighten adjusting your top as he took his hands off of you, a smirk forming that matches his. “Try me.”
And just like that, the hum of the party returns. Music, lights, laughter. The world moves again. But between you everything has shifted. You don’t need to define it. Not yet. Not when both of you finally stopped being scared of something that was always quietly underneath all of the hate.
