A shy cashier and a loud, beatboxing grocery bagger in Puerto Rico grow from teasing coworkers to first love, as she believes in Benito’s DJ dreams long before the world knows his name — and stands proudly by his side when he finally makes it big.
Paring. Benito Antonio Martinez Ocasio x reader
I’m actually obsessed with this man now, I’m going try to write the hell out of him until I eventually get bored him of (which is never) and hopefully I’ll focus on my other fics which I should be writing at the moment seeing as I have a free day off but whatever, I honestly hope you guys enjoy this!!
The grocery store sat on a busy corner in Puerto Rico where the afternoon sun always made the front windows glow gold. The bell above the door was loud and dramatic, ringing like someone had just entered a royal ballroom instead of a neighborhood market. The floors were slightly uneven, the fridge in aisle three hummed like it was thinking deeply about life, and the same three songs played on the radio every single shift. It wasn’t special. It wasn’t glamorous. But for you, it was where everything important quietly began.
You worked the register with careful precision. Your hair was always neatly tied back, your name tag straight, your uniform tucked in properly. You counted change twice before handing it over, even when the line was long. You apologized when customers bumped into you. You said “thank you” softly and meant it every time. You didn’t like drawing attention to yourself, and you certainly didn’t like breaking rules.
Benito, on the other hand, behaved like the grocery store was a stage that had simply not yet realized its potential
He bagged groceries like it was choreography. He stacked items in the bags with exaggerated care, narrating what he was doing under his breath like a cooking show host. He greeted customers as if they were long-lost family members. If someone bought one item, he asked about their day. If someone bought twenty items, he made commentary about their snack choices like he was reviewing them for an audience.
You would feel your stomach twist with secondhand embarrassment, whispering urgently from behind the register, “Benito, please just bag the groceries.”
“They love me,” he would respond confidently, flashing a grin that was impossible not to notice
The worst part was that sometimes they actually did.
The first time Mr. Alvarez assigned you both to restock shelves together, you immediately felt nervous. You liked tasks that were quiet and structured. You liked being left alone to organize things neatly and efficiently. Restocking aisle five should have been simple. Cans in order. Labels facing forward. Expiration dates checked. Done.
Benito treated aisle five like it was a rehearsal studio.
You were carefully arranging tomato cans by date when you heard the soft rhythm start behind you. At first it was subtle. A beat under his breath. Then a little bass sound. Then full beatboxing that echoed lightly between the shelves.
“Benito,” you whispered sharply without turning around, “please stop. Mr. Alvarez is nearby.”
“He appreciates talent,” he replied smoothly, stacking cans in rhythm with his beat.
“He appreciates silence.”
He suddenly grabbed two cereal boxes, holding one to his mouth like a microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to aisle five, where we have discounts and rhythm.”
You froze, eyes widening as a customer slowly pushed their cart past you, staring openly. Your ears burned. “Put those down,” you hissed.
He leaned closer, lowering his voice but not enough. “You’re my assistant DJ.”
“Yes you are. Say something cool.”
“I’m organizing inventory.”
He looked at you like you had personally disappointed him. “That is not cool.”
You were 90 percent sure you were going to lose your job because this boy did not understand volume control. When he suddenly reached toward your arm and pretended to scan it like a barcode, whispering “beep,” you lightly smacked his shoulder, trying not to smile even though you absolutely wanted to.
The thing was, he always stopped the second he sensed you were genuinely uncomfortable. When Mr. Alvarez actually appeared at the end of the aisle with that serious look, Benito instantly straightened his posture and began stacking cans perfectly, face completely innocent. If there was an award for dramatic personality switches, he would have won.
“See?” he whispered after the manager walked away. “Professional.”
“You’re unbelievable,” you murmured, though your lips betrayed you by curving slightly.
But when a customer once made a rude comment about how slow you were scanning items, Benito stepped forward without theatrics and calmly handled the situation, redirecting the mood and making the customer laugh instead. When you struggled lifting a heavy box of bottled water, he took it from you gently without making it a spectacle. He was loud and spontaneous, yes, but he noticed everything. Especially you.
Your breaks always overlapped, even though neither of you admitted it was intentional. Behind the store there was a small patch of shade from a tired-looking tree, and you both sat on the curb like it was reserved seating. Benito always brought two sodas without asking. Cola for you. Orange for him. He would pop the can open dramatically, then pass yours to you like it was an offering.
“You’re too quiet,” he told you once, leaning back on his hands and squinting at the sky
“I talk,” you said softly.
You looked at him in disbelief. He grinned like that was the funniest thing he had ever said.
Then he would start talking about music. Always music. His hands moved when he spoke, describing beats in the air, explaining rhythms like they were living creatures. He talked about performing one day, about crowds shouting lyrics back to him, about not wanting to bag groceries forever.
You listened more than you spoke. Sometimes you didn’t fully understand the ambition in his voice, but you understood the sincerity. He wasn’t joking when he talked about it. Not really.
“One day people are going to scream my name,” he said once, completely serious. You took a slow sip of your soda and thought about it. “Okay.”
“I mean… that sounds loud.”
He stared at you like you were impossible. “You don’t get it.”
“I just don’t know why you want strangers yelling.”
“Because it means you made it.”
You studied his face then. The way his confidence wasn’t arrogance. It was hope. And without fully realizing it, you said quietly, “I think you could.”
He went quiet for once. He bumped his shoulder lightly against yours and didn’t joke about it.
The store was busy that afternoon. The scanner beeped repeatedly as you moved items across it in steady rhythm. You were focused, counting coins carefully while a customer took forever to decide between bills. You didn’t even notice Benito return from his break until you felt his presence leaning casually against your counter.
“Why are you standing there?” you asked under your breath.
“Working,” he replied confidently.
“That’s part of the job.” You shook your head but didn’t look at him. He watched you for a moment, unusually quiet. “I got invited somewhere tonight,” he said finally.
“Mm-hmm,” you responded, scanning a carton of milk.
That made you pause. You slowly turned your head. “Since when do you DJ, Benny?”
He looked almost offended. “Since always.”
“You don’t own equipment.”
“That sounds concerning.”
He rolled his eyes but you could see the hint of nerves behind the bravado. “It’s a small gathering. Nothing big.” You studied him for a second longer than necessary. He suddenly looked less loud and more hopeful.
“Come with me,” he added, softer.
Your heart skipped unexpectedly. “Why?”
“Because I don’t want to look stupid alone.”
You smiled despite yourself. “You won’t look stupid.”
You hesitated only a moment. “Okay. I’ll come.” The smile he tried to suppress failed completely.
It really was just someone’s backyard. The grass was uneven, a little dry in patches, and the plastic chairs were the kind that made a squeaky sound every time someone shifted their weight. String lights were hanging from one side of the fence to the other, slightly crooked, blinking lazily like they were trying their best. Someone’s aunt was inside yelling for people to stop going in and out of the kitchen. The speakers weren’t top quality. The table Benito was using as a DJ booth was clearly borrowed from someone’s dining room.
But when Benito stepped behind that little folding table and put the headphones over his curls, something changed.
You had spent months watching him joke around in the grocery store, beatboxing between cereal aisles, pretending cans were microphones and turning restocking into a concert rehearsal. You were used to the loud, playful version of him — the one who teased you until your ears turned red and made customers laugh even when you were trying to keep everything calm.
He adjusted the controls with steady hands. He leaned forward slightly, listening carefully to the transitions. His shoulders relaxed in a way you had never seen at work. There was no performance for attention. No exaggerated jokes. No teasing commentary. Just focus. Just music.
When the first smooth transition hit and the small crowd reacted with surprised cheers, your heart jumped.
You stood near the fence, fingers loosely laced together in front of you, trying not to look too obvious about how proud you felt. You weren’t loud like the others. You didn’t scream or jump. You just watched him carefully, memorizing the way he moved his head to the rhythm, the way he bit his lip slightly when concentrating.
His eyes searched the backyard quickly — scanning faces — and when they found you standing there quietly watching him like he mattered more than the music, his entire expression softened.
Not the big dramatic grin he used at work
And after that, he played even better. More confident. Smoother transitions. Bolder song choices. Like he needed you there. Like you were proof that he wasn’t crazy for dreaming. When the party slowly started winding down and people began gathering their things, he packed up the borrowed equipment carefully, still riding the leftover adrenaline. You waited a little distance away, rocking slightly on your heels, pretending not to stare at him.
When he finally walked over, his hair slightly messy from the headphones and his cheeks still warm from excitement, he looked almost shy.
“Ready?” he asked casually, like he hadn’t just performed for everyone.
The walk home was warm and slow. The streets of Puerto Rico at night had their own rhythm — distant music from other houses, a dog barking somewhere far off, the soft hum of passing cars. The air felt heavy but comforting, like it was wrapping around both of you.
For the first few steps, neither of you said much.
He kept glancing at you, You pretended not to notice. Finally he cleared his throat. “So?”
You looked up at him, confused. “So what?”
“What did you think?” He tried to sound relaxed, but there was something nervous under it. He kicked lightly at a loose pebble on the sidewalk. You didn’t answer immediately. You were thinking carefully, because you didn’t want it to sound like you were just being nice.
“You didn’t look scared,” you said softly.
He blinked. “That’s your review?”
“You didn’t look like you were pretending,” you continued. “You looked… like you belonged there.” He slowed his steps a little. “Really?” he asked, and this time the confidence wasn’t loud. It was hopeful.
“Yes,” you said simply. “You were really good.”
He let out a small breath like he had been holding it all night. “I messed up one transition.”
“You always notice everything,” you said gently. He looked at you sideways. “You were watching that closely?” You immediately felt shy. “I was just standing there.”
“Mm-hmm,” he teased lightly. “Just standing there staring at me.”
He laughed softly, the sound warm in the quiet street. “Observing, huh?” You tried to look serious. “Yes.” There was a small comfortable silence after that. The kind that doesn’t feel awkward.
“You really think I could do that for real?” he asked suddenly.
You looked at him again. Not at the loud grocery store boy. Not at the clown in aisle five. But at the version of him you saw tonight — steady, focused, happy.
“Yes,” you said without hesitation.
He didn’t joke about it this time. He didn’t brush it off. He just looked forward, absorbing your answer like it meant more than all the cheers from the party.
As you reached your street, the lights from your house glowing softly at the end of it, your hands brushed accidentally when you both slowed down at the same time. Neither of you moved away, Your fingers barely touched. Just the sides. Warm. Careful. He looked down at your hand for a second, then back at you. “You came,” he said quietly.
“Even though you thought I was borrowing illegal equipment.
You smiled. “I still think that.”
He grinned, stepping a little closer as you reached your gate. “Thanks for coming.”
“Thanks for asking.” There was a pause there. A soft one. The kind where something could happen, but doesn’t have to yet.
“You’re gonna get famous one day,” you said gently.
He tilted his head. “Yeah?”
He looked at you like he wanted to say something bigger. Something braver. But instead he just smiled in that shy, softer way that only showed up when he wasn’t performing for anyone else.
“Goodnight, Benny.” You said softly and looked him in the eyes deeply, slowly you leaned in and pecked him on the lips delicately before smiling and chuckling, you covered you’re pink lips and quickly went to you’re house as the young boy stood there in shock.
As you walked inside and glanced back once, he was still standing there for a second longer than necessary, hands in his pockets, smiling to himself under the Puerto Rican night sky.
As the years passed after that first backyard party, life didn’t explode overnight. It grew. Slowly. Steadily. Like something being built brick by brick.
You moved from grocery store shifts to studio visits. From curbside sodas to late-night car rides while he played you rough demos through cheap speakers. You were there when he recorded in tiny rooms with foam panels taped to walls. You were there when his voice cracked from trying to perfect a hook. You were there when he doubted himself, when a song didn’t hit, when money was tight, when he questioned if he was chasing something too big.
But you never doubted him.
And he never stopped looking at you first after finishing a new song.
By 2018, everything was different. His name was bigger. His shows were louder. His schedule was full. But when he proposed to you at twenty-four, it didn’t feel rushed or crazy or young.
He didn’t do it in some over-the-top dramatic way. It was private. Emotional. Just the two of you somewhere quiet in Puerto Rico, the sun setting in soft orange behind him as his hands shook slightly while holding the ring.
“You’ve been with me since nothing,” he told you, voice unsteady. “Before anyone cared.”
“I don’t want any of this without you.”
You said yes before he even finished.
You married young. But it didn’t feel young. It felt like choosing your best friend. And for a while, it was beautiful. He cherished you. Publicly and privately. When he mentioned love in songs, when he talked about loyalty, when he hinted at devotion — it was about you. You knew it. His team knew it. His friends knew it.
But there were parts you struggled with, Sometimes he’d play you a demo in the car, looking at you expectantly.
“What do you think?” he’d ask, bouncing slightly in his seat.
Some songs were raw. Sexual. Detailed in ways that made you uncomfortable. You understood artistry. You understood image. But sometimes it felt too exposed. Too graphic. Too much of something that felt private to you.
“You don’t like it,” he’d notice immediately, his smile dropping.
“It’s good,” you’d say carefully.
You’d sigh softly. “It’s just… a bit much.”
“It sounds…” You struggled for the word. “Repulsive.”
He would sit back, slightly defensive. “It’s real. It’s honest.”
“I know. I just don’t want to hear you describing that to millions of people.”
Those conversations started gently.
But as fame grew, so did tension.
He began feeding off the attention. The screaming fans. The women throwing themselves forward at concerts. He didn’t cheat. But he liked being admired. You could see it. The way he’d hold eye contact a second too long. The way he’d smirk at the front row.
One night, after a massive show in LA, you snapped.
Back at home, still in your heels, adrenaline mixed with hurt, you turned to him sharply. “You just fucking eye fucked someone else at the concert!”
He looked stunned. “What?”
“I was looking into the crowd.”
“You were locked onto her.”
“There were thousands of women!”
“Oh fuck off,” you shot back, your voice sharp in a way it never used to be.
He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “You’re overthinking.” Shocked by your reaction and the sudden swearing, sure you made it clear before you didn’t enjoy his lingering eyes and touches with others but today you seemed to be off like a fire.
The truth was, he didn’t see it the way you did. To him, it was performance energy. To you, it felt intimate. Personal. Disrespectful.
And slowly, without either of you realizing at first, you began to change.
You stopped laughing as easily. You stopped reaching for him automatically. Your softness retreated inward. You became quieter, but not in the warm shy way from the grocery store.
You answered shorter. You touched less. You smiled less in private, And he noticed, One night he watched you sitting at the kitchen island scrolling silently on your phone, and something twisted in his chest.
You used to lean against him while he talked.
You used to bump his shoulder playfully.
He loved you because you were kind. Open. Gentle. Bright. You grounded him. You were his calm. And now that calm felt frozen over.
That’s when he made a decision.
“We’re going home,” he said one day.
“Puerto Rico. For a while. No America. No big shows. Just home.”
Back in Puerto Rico, things slowed.
Family dinners. Cousins dropping by unannounced. Familiar streets. Familiar air. Spanish flowing without translation. No paparazzi outside the gate. No screaming crowds. Just warmth.
You visited your family. You visited his. You walked through old neighborhoods. You drove past the grocery store one afternoon and both of you went quiet at the same time.
“I used to beatbox in there,” he said softly.
The beach day was what broke you.
He insisted on packing everything himself. Two big bags over one arm. A cooler tucked against his hip. A large towel thrown over his shoulder. He refused help even though you offered.
You walked behind him on the sand, watching the way he adjusted the bags carefully so nothing would fall. Watching him spread the large towel out gently, smoothing it flat with concentration like it was the most important task in the world.
The sun hit his curls. His expression was soft. Peaceful. Not performing. Not posturing. Just him.
The one who used to bring you soda without asking.
Your chest tightened unexpectedly, You didn’t even realize you were crying until your vision blurred. He turned around mid-motion and froze.
“Mi amor?” His voice dropped instantly.
He let the bags fall into the sand without caring and rushed toward you.
“Hey. Hey.” His hands came to your face gently. “What happened?”
You shook your head, tears falling faster now, and stepped into him, burying your face in his neck, gripping his shirt tightly. “I missed you,” you mumbled against his skin, voice breaking. “I missed you so much.”
His entire body went still.
He wrapped both arms around you firmly, holding you like he used to after small grocery shifts when the world felt simple.
“I’m right here,” he whispered, voice thick. “I’m right here.” His own eyes burned. He pressed his lips together to keep them steady and held you tighter.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured into your hair. “I never meant to lose us.”
You cried harder at that.
Not because he didn’t love you, But because fame had stretched something between you and you both finally felt it, On that beach, with the ocean loud and the sand warm under your feet, you held each other without ego. Without audience. Without performance.
Just two people who started in a grocery store.
And found each other again at home.
