a/n; dedicated to all your silly boys, thank you for reading!
by your belt loops. fluff. suggestive. fem!reader. | not proofread.
where he redirects you by pulling on your belt loops... multiple times.
♡ For all your (super touchy and handsy) favorites.
more of your favorite boys here!
Grocery shopping with him always felt different than doing it alone.
With him—it wasn’t like you forgot how to function, at least not in that loud ‘oh no, I knocked over a pyramid of cans’ kind of way, but more in that distracted, floaty ‘ooh look, they have fresh milk bread… oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t see your cart’ kind of way where you stopped watching where you were going or what you were supposed to be doing.
You were smart, no doubt. You held more degrees than him, multiple certifications and a licensure under your belt.
You were observant, thoughtful, organized to the point of being endearingly meticulous—he always said so, in that clipped tone of his like he couldn’t understand why it surprised you every time.
But when he was beside you like this—sweatpants slung low on his hips, jacket rolled at the sleeves, hood half up—walking the fluorescent-lit aisles of the local grocery store, your brain just… slowed.
Like your mind had kicked off its shoes and curled up somewhere quiet, trusting him to take care of the rest.
It was a relief, honestly.
You’d gotten so distracted by the in-store bakery display that you didn’t notice the towering stack of promotional soy milk crates right in front of you as you walked and stared at the same time.
You were completely absorbed, eyes tracking a particularly fat custard bun that looked like it might collapse under its own delicious weight.
That’s when your foot hit something solid. It wasn’t a forceful hit, not enough to send waves of milk crashing down the aisle, but enough to make one of the bottles at the base wobble, the whole stack teetering ever so slightly.
A display. Organic soy milk. Little beige bottles stacked up.
Without breaking stride, he reached for you, two fingers sliding smoothly into the belt loop at the back of your jeans. He gave a gentle tug, guiding you out of collision range with practiced ease, pulling you back against him, so your spine slotted into his chest.
His arm wrapped low around your waist, palm pressing against your hip.
Warm. Steady. Deliberate.
The way only he could be.
Because touching you was his reflex.
“Careful,” he murmured against the shell of your ear, voice low with amusement, breath brushing the side of your face.
You mumbled a soft apology, cheeks warming.
“Mm,” he hummed lazily. Then, casually, he gave you two small, absent-minded pats on the underside of your ass.
You whirled around to glare at him playfully.
“Your ass is cute,” he said, entirely unbothered, mouth barely hiding a smirk. “Also, if you’re gonna let me drive you, I gotta make sure the breaks work, yeah?”
You covered your face with your sleeve, half mortified, half giddy—mostly giddy.
Still, he didn’t let go, didn’t even pause—just adjusted slightly, hand tightening at your side as he started pushing the cart forward again with his other.
It was ridiculous how easily you melted into him.
Maybe that's why you let him steer you into the next aisle, turning the corner as his hand curved a little tighter around your waist, keeping you steady against the slight sway of the cart’s wheel.
Your eyes lit up at the tea, and you tried to reach for a box of your usual black on the shelf, rising on your toes just slightly to grab it.
But before your fingers could even brush the box, his hand moved—sliding from your waist to your stomach, fingers splaying there like a quiet, familiar reminder. And then, again, with a tug at your belt loops, he eased you back down, pulling you flush against him.
“No, pretty. We still have more at home.”
“Mhm. Of course you did, baby.”
You flushed deeper and gave up, letting him guide you away without protest to the next aisle.
He let the cart roll to a stop in front of a shelf lined with protein bars—rows and rows of them, all in sleek packaging, looking aggressively ‘healthy.’
He didn’t say anything right away—just leaned in a little, voice a smooth murmur behind your ear.
“Alright. Let’s see if you remember.”
He nodded toward the shelf. “The ones I like.”
You narrowed your eyes at him, pretending to study the boxes, trying to calm the rapid skipping of your heart. “You’re quizzing me now?”
His thumb dragged lightly along the waistband of your jeans. Then, with the same casual ease, he gave your ass an encouraging little pat—fond, gentle, and soft enough to make your stomach flip.
You huffed and scanned the options quickly, actually using your brain, trying to remember the exact brand he always grabbed—the one with dark chocolate and sea salt, not the chalky kind or the one that left crumbs everywhere.
Your fingers closed around a box, and you held it up for him to see, one brow lifted. “These?”
He glanced at it, slow and unreadable.
He wordlessly took the box from your hands and dropped it into the cart. His voice dropped lower, quiet and almost absently, he added, “Good girl.”
It was passive, offhand, but smug in a way that made heat flicker behind your ears, especially paired with the faint squeeze of his fingers on your hip—he knew exactly what he was doing to you and didn’t care to hide it.
You opened your mouth, not even sure what to say, but he just brushed his hand over the small of your back before curling his fingers right back into your belt loop like he'd known you’d get it right all along.
Like you were part of his rhythm.
Still touching. Still steering. Still keeping you close.
Sure, you got a little (a lot) clumsy around him; your brain went a little (a lot) mushy. And grocery shopping took a while.
But that didn’t matter. Not to him.
In fact, he wanted you to get distracted.
Because underneath all of that soft, quiet chaos, you trusted him to look out for you.
And he never rushed you. Never pulled away.
Just waited. Just let you be.
