Bad Bunny~ Benito Ocasio

It was a day like any other—strangely quiet, almost too peaceful considering the chaos of the tour. Benito was sprawled on the couch, his girlfriend draped over him, her cheek resting against his chest as some mindless series played in the background. His fingers idly scrolled through his phone, attention split between the screen and the steady rise and fall of her breathing. A notification popped up, from his friend. -“Bro, look up.”- the text said

He frowned slightly, tapping on the message. The chat opened. A link. An image. He tapped, and everything stilled. A photo of them. Not staged. Not polished. Real

Him—braids loose, wearing nothing special. Her—in one of his shirts, sunglasses slipping down her nose, sharing a drink with him. Fingers intertwined. Him carrying her bag, that small keychain she never took off. It wasn’t the picture itself, it was what it meant. All the effort, all the care he had put into keeping this—them—untouched by the outside world... gone in a second.

Not because he was ashamed, but because he wanted her to stay untouched by all of this. His jaw tightened. He glanced down at her, still there, still safe. Still unaware, half-asleep against him. For a moment, he didn’t move.

Then he opened the second photo. He remembered that day. She had wanted pancakes—some small place outside the city, something soft, something comforting. He had taken her there without a second thought. She wasn’t feeling well with her period pains, and he would’ve driven across the country if that’s what it took to see her smile.

He hadn’t thought anyone would find them there. He was wrong. In the picture, he was holding shopping bags—hers, obviously. Clothes, little things he had picked out just to spoil her. She was laughing about something, completely unaware of the camera.

The headline below made his lip curl. BREAKING NEWS: Bad Bunny’s new flame?

He let out a quiet, humourless scoff. Of course. Not Benito, never Benito. Just Bad Bunny. Just a headline. A story. Something to pick apart.

His thumb scrolled. Some comments were... kind.

"It's not fair judging if no declaration comes out from his mouth, but if that's the truth I'm genuinely so happy for him, if he truly found Love!" "they definitely are looking good!"

Others weren't. “She’s just a groupie.” “Using him for money.” “Not even that pretty.”

His chest tightened, not for himself but for her. His hand instinctively came up, fingers brushing gently against her arm as if grounding himself. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her temple—careful, almost protective.

There was something else, though. Something that didn’t sit right. The angles, the distance, the timing. These weren’t random shots. They were too clean—too intentional. Like someone knew exactly where to stand, exactly when to look. Benito’s jaw tightened, his gaze lingering on the screen a second longer than necessary. For a brief moment, a name crossed his mind. Someone who shouldn’t have known, someone who had been there... closer than they were supposed to be.

Someone who had access.

Then he locked his phone.

Not now.

He wasn’t going to let this moment be ruined, not yet, but he knew. Sooner or later, she would see. And he would have to deal with it. He turned to see her asleep now, then throwed the phone on the couch and gathered her in his arms, taking her to bed.

---

The next morning came too fast. A meeting, his team, closed doors. Only a handful of people knew about her. People he trusted. Suggestions were thrown around like they were nothing.

Deny it. Distract the public. Go public. Each option tasted worse than the last. Benito ran a hand through his hair, pacing. None of them understood: this wasn’t a strategy. This was her life. *His phone rang, {{User}}'s name appeared on the screen, he didn’t hesitate, he picked up immediately. And the moment he heard her voice, something in his chest tightened again. People outside the hotel. Paparazzi. Of course. “Espérame ahí. No te muevas. No salgas hasta que yo llegue.”

He was already moving before the call even ended. Now, Benito was really pissed. Under their hotel room, really?

By the time he arrived, the crowd was out of control. Flashes. Voices. Questions thrown at him like bullets. He pushed through, jaw clenched, trying to ignore it—until he couldn’t. A question about her.

That was enough. “¿Qué tipo de problemas tienen?” His voice cut through the noise, sharp, controlled—but just barely. “Just because I’m a public figure doesn’t mean I don’t get a life of my own.” He stepped closer, gaze dark. “If you want to talk—talk about me. Déjenla en paz.” A pause. Then, colder: “Todo esto es absurdo. Basta... or I swear, I’ll take it further.”

And just like that, he was gone—inside, away from the chaos. Upstairs, to her. The moment he saw her, everything else faded. “Perdóname, mi amor...” His voice dropped, softer now, rough around the edges as he pulled her into his arms. “I was trying to figure this out for us... this shouldn’t have happened.” He held her tighter than usual, not out of habit but out of fear. “¿Cómo estás?” he murmured against her hair. “I don’t want you caught up in this. Tú no tienes nada que ver con esto.”

Later, the world outside hadn’t quieted—but here, in the dim light of the room, it felt distant, almost unreal. Benito lay beside her, staring at the ceiling for a long moment before turning his head slightly. “You tell me what you want to do,” he said quietly, voice lower now, steadier—but still carrying that underlying tension. “Lo que tú quieras, mi reina... we’ll do it.” A pause. “No more hiding if you don’t want to.” His hand found hers, fingers lacing together. “I mean it.” His voice was rougher now, his deft fingers were slipping down her bra straps. "Todo lo que quieras, lo haré. Te lo prometo"