#bellingham

slower.

it was the one place where the pressure of the outside world seemed to stay behind the door. you preferred it that way. especially when a certain midfielder decided to make your job ten times harder than it needed to be.

your eyes stayed on the tablet in your hands as you updated the last few notes from the day’s training session, already knowing who was next without needing to check the schedule.

jude bellingham.

of course. you could almost predict how this would go. he would walk in, pretend nothing was wrong, insist he was perfectly fine, and then act personally betrayed when you pointed out the obvious fact that his body did not agree with him.

and right on cue—the door opened.

“leave.” the word left your mouth before you even looked up. you were too familiar with the sound of those footsteps to mistake them for anyone else’s. everyone else who walked into the treatment room came in with a reason—an injury, a question, a concern.

jude walked in like he had come to negotiate a personal disagreement. there was always a pause before he spoke. like he needed a second to decide whether he was going to be reasonable or make your life unnecessarily difficult. you already knew which option he would choose.

the silence stretched.

you kept your eyes on the tablet in your hands, pretending you were more interested in the recovery notes than the fact that you could practically feel him staring at you.

then—

“excuse me?” his voice came out lower than usual, slightly rough, but the amusement underneath it was impossible to miss. his eyebrows raised like you had personally insulted him instead of simply telling him to leave. which, technically, you had. but he deserved it. he wasn’t actually offended. he never was. jude liked pretending he was.

you finally raised your eyes.

the door opened fully, and jude stepped inside, looking like he had just walked straight out of training and had no intention of admitting how tired he actually was. a towel rested loosely around his neck, his training shirt slightly damp from the intensity of the session, the fabric clinging just enough to show the evidence of ninety minutes spent pushing himself.

he carried himself with that same effortless confidence he brought onto the pitch, shoulders relaxed, a faint smirk already appearing like he knew he was about to be challenged the second he walked through the door. he looked exhausted, but somehow that never stopped him from finding the energy to argue.

especially with you.

“you heard me.” you said it calmly, almost lazily, and that seemed to annoy him more than if you had argued back.

he had always been terrible at dealing with people who refused to react the way he expected.

jude stared at you for a moment, his eyebrows still slightly raised, waiting for you to break and admit you were joking. he closed the door behind him, his attention immediately shifting to you as he crossed the room.

“i haven’t even said anything.” the way he said it was almost convincing. almost. his tone had that familiar disbelief he used whenever he wanted to make himself sound like the victim. his eyes narrowed slightly, his mouth twitching at the corner because he was trying not to smile.

he hated that you knew him well enough to notice.

“that’s usually when you’re at your most annoying.”

for a second, he just stared. you watched the exact moment he decided whether to laugh or defend himself. he chose both.

“interesting,” the word came out slowly, like he was genuinely considering your statement. he dropped his bag beside the chair with a quiet thud. “you knew it was me.”

there was something annoyingly confident about the way he said it. like he was proud of the fact that you could predict him. you hated that he was right.

you leaned back in your chair. “you’re the only person who walks into my room like they own it.”

jude looked around. slowly. dramatically. his eyes moved over the room like he was searching for proof that he had somehow been given ownership without anyone telling him. then he looked back at you. “i walked through a door.”

“dramatically.” you had to look away for a second because the seriousness in his voice was ridiculous. he said it like you had accused him of committing an actual crime.

his eyebrows lifted and he repeated the word quietly, almost to himself. “dramatically?”

“yes.”

you could see him trying to understand your logic. failing. and somehow finding that entertaining. “how exactly does someone walk dramatically?”

you set the tablet down, finally giving him your full attention. “you found a way.”

there it was. that small smile. the one he always tried to hide whenever you won an argument. jude looked away for half a second, running his tongue over his cheek like he was thinking of a response. he had one. he always had one. but sometimes he paused because he knew arguing with you was exactly what got him here in the first place.

“you know, most people are happy to see me.” his voice softened slightly, slipping back into that teasing tone. the one that made it clear he was enjoying this more than he wanted to admit.

you looked back down. “most people don’t have to deal with you pretending a five-minute recovery session is a personal attack.”

he let out a quiet breath through his nose. a laugh he tried to disguise. “that is such an exaggeration.”

you looked at him. nothing else. just looked. jude immediately noticed. his confidence faltered.

“is it?” you asked, your voice carrying that quiet, unimpressed tone that always made him feel like he was already losing the argument before it had even properly started.

you watched the way his expression shifted almost instantly. just slightly. a tiny pause. a small flicker in his eyes. because jude knew exactly where this was going.

he leaned back against the edge of the treatment table, crossing his arms over his chest as if that would somehow make him look more prepared to defend himself. it didn’t. if anything, it made him look like he was bracing himself for a conversation he knew he couldn’t win.

“last week you called stretching ‘a punishment designed specifically for footballers’.” you repeated his own words back to him, your eyes staying on his face long enough to catch the exact moment he realised he had no reasonable argument.

jude’s lips parted slightly. then closed. for someone who always had something to say, it was almost impressive how quickly he went quiet when you reminded him of his own dramatic statements.

“i did not say it like that,” he finally replied, his voice taking on that defensive edge you had become far too familiar with. the one where he sounded completely serious, even when he was obviously trying to rewrite history.

you raised an eyebrow. “you did.”

“no.”

“you did.”

“i may have said something similar.”

“jude.”

he looked away for a second, dragging a hand through the damp hair at the back of his neck, the movement almost automatic—a habit you had noticed long ago whenever he was searching for an argument, trying to find a way to defend himself without admitting you were right.

the sweat from training still clung to his skin, a reminder that he had only just stepped off the pitch, and for once, the confident answer he usually had ready didn’t come as quickly. his eyes dropped briefly to the floor before returning to yours, his expression caught somewhere between stubbornness and reluctant amusement, like he already knew he was losing but was far too proud to surrender that easily.

“okay,” he admitted slowly, looking back at you. “maybe i said something close to that.”

“exactly.”

“but my point still stands.”

you stared at him. “what point?”

he hesitated. and that hesitation alone told you everything. “…that stretching is unpleasant.”

the silence that followed was immediate. you didn’t even need to say anything.

jude saw your expression and sighed, shaking his head with a quiet laugh. “don’t look at me like that.”

“like what?”

“like you’re disappointed in me.”

“i am.”

“wow,” he pressed a hand against his chest dramatically. “that actually hurt more than the stretching.”

“good.”

“you’re enjoying this.”

“immensely.”

and the worst part was, he couldn’t even argue. because the small smile he was trying to hide gave him away.

you didn’t give him the chance to come up with another excuse. the second you saw the look forming on his face—that familiar expression that meant he was about to turn a simple recovery session into a full debate—you set the clipboard down on the counter. “enough.”

jude immediately stopped. not because the word itself was intimidating. because he knew that tone. it was the same tone you used when he was about to push his luck too far. calm, steady, completely unimpressed. the kind that told him arguing would only make things worse. which, unfortunately, had never stopped him before. his eyes moved from your face to the treatment table and then back again.

“what?” the question came out slowly, almost suspiciously, like he was waiting for you to reveal some kind of hidden punishment.

you crossed your arms. “get on the table.”

there was a small pause. jude stared at you. then he looked over his shoulder at the table behind him, as if maybe you were talking to someone else. you weren’t.

“that’s it?” his voice had that slight teasing edge again, the one he used whenever he was trying to pretend he wasn’t listening while already preparing to do exactly what you said.

you raised an eyebrow. “what do you mean, that’s it?”

“usually there’s a lecture first.” he said, dropping his towel over the back of the nearby chair before grabbing the hem of his training shirt and pulling it over his head. the movement was effortless, almost automatic. he tossed the shirt aside without much thought, like he hadn’t just spent hours on the pitch pushing himself until his body was begging for a break. like he wasn’t the same person who had walked into the room with tension sitting heavily across his shoulders.

“jude.”

“i’m just saying,” he continued, looking at you with a small grin, “i appreciate consistency.”

you held his gaze. silence. that was all it took.

“right.” his grin faded slightly and a quiet laugh escaped him as he shook his head. “table, okay.”

you watched him move, unable to stop the small thought that he really was predictable. every single time. he complained. he argued. he acted like he was being forced into something terrible. and then he did exactly what you told him five seconds later.

jude lowered himself onto the table with an exaggerated sigh, making sure you heard it.

you didn’t react.

that was exactly why he did it. if there was one thing jude hated more than being told what to do, it was when his dramatic complaints didn’t get the attention he thought they deserved.

“nothing?” he asked after a moment, his arms resting comfortably by his sides while his head was turned slightly to the left, cheek resting against the paper-covered pillow. the exhaustion from training showed more clearly now that he wasn’t moving—his shoulders finally relaxed, his breathing slower, the tension he carried around without noticing beginning to ease.

you continued arranging the supplies beside you, completely unfazed. “about what?”

“my suffering.” his head turned slightly against the pillow, just enough for him to glance back at you from the corner of his eye. even lying there exhausted from training, he still somehow managed to look offended, like he genuinely couldn’t believe you weren’t taking his complaints seriously.

you glanced at him. “you walked into the room five seconds ago.”

jude’s eyebrows lifted slightly, like that was completely irrelevant information.

“and already, i’m suffering.” the seriousness in his voice was ridiculous. he said it like he had just endured something unbearable instead of simply sitting down on a treatment table.

“impressive.” you tried not to smile. tried. but the smallest twitch at the corner of your mouth gave you away for half a second.

he caught it immediately. of course he did. jude always noticed the smallest victories. “thank you.”

“that wasn’t a compliment.” you looked down as you prepared what you needed, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing that he had managed to amuse you.

“still taking it.”

you exhaled quietly through your nose, shaking your head as you stepped closer to the table. it was impossible. absolutely impossible. he could be exhausted after training, muscles aching, barely having enough energy left to complain—and somehow he would still find the strength to argue with you.

“you’re impossible.” the words left your mouth somewhere between a complaint and a statement of fact, because at this point you weren’t even sure why you bothered arguing with him.

jude had a talent for turning the simplest things into a debate. a recovery session became an argument. a simple instruction became a negotiation. somehow, even lying exhausted on the treatment table after training, he still found the energy to make everything ten times more difficult than it needed to be.

from where he was lying face down, his head turned slightly toward you, you caught the small smile he was trying to hide. he always did that. he’d act like he was offended, like your words had wounded him deeply, but the amusement in his expression always gave him away.

“i hear that a lot.” his voice was quieter now, slightly muffled against the pillow, but you could still hear the amusement in it.

of course he was still joking. even now.

you shook your head slightly, focusing on the work in front of you. your hands moved slowly, working through the stiffness that had built up after training. you knew exactly where he tended to hold tension—the same areas every time. jude always carried too much in his shoulders. he would deny it. obviously. he would probably argue that his shoulders were “perfectly fine” while you could physically feel the opposite.

“from everyone?” you asked, glancing down at him.

his breathing had slowed. his shoulders had dropped. and, most importantly, he had finally stopped moving. for about thirty seconds. which was probably a personal record.

“mostly from you.”

you stepped closer, refusing to let him see that he had almost made you smile—placing your hands over his shoulders and upper back, taking a moment to feel where the tension had settled.

you didn’t even need to ask. you already knew. “you’re tense.”

his answer came immediately.

“i’m not.” the words were slightly muffled against the pillow, far too confident for someone whose body was clearly disagreeing with him.

you raised an eyebrow even though he couldn’t see it. “jude.”

“what?”

“don’t start.”

a small smile tugged at his mouth. “i’m just saying.”

“you always ‘just say’ things when you know you’re wrong.”

he let out a quiet laugh, but didn’t argue further. for a moment, he actually listened.

jude could stand there after a difficult training session, brushing off every complaint, insisting he was perfectly fine while everyone around him could see the exhaustion catching up with him. he was stubborn in the most predictable way—the kind of stubborn that made you want to roll your eyes and laugh at the same time.

your hands moved slowly over the tension in his shoulders, working through the tightness he had carried in from training. you didn’t rush it. you knew better than that with him. the second you found a particularly tense area, his body reacted before he could.

a small shift. a slight pause in his breathing. barely noticeable. to anyone else, maybe. not to you.

“see?” his voice broke the quiet again, softer now, like he was trying to distract from the fact that you had clearly noticed.

you looked down at him. “what?”

“fine.”

you paused for a second, glancing at him with an expression that made it obvious you weren’t convinced. “you’re fine?”

there was a tiny hesitation before he answered, like he knew exactly what you were about to say but was still committed to the argument. “exactly.”

you looked back down, continuing the treatment, completely unimpressed. of course. jude could barely hide his reactions, yet somehow still believed he was convincing.

“you said that before i even started.”

a quiet laugh escaped him, muffled slightly against the pillow. “because i knew.”

“you knew?” you looked down at him, watching the way he kept his face turned towards the pillow, like avoiding eye contact would somehow make his argument stronger.

“yes.” the confidence in his voice was almost impressive. almost. especially considering his body had already betrayed him twice.

“interesting.” you let the word linger, your tone making it very clear that you didn’t believe him for even a second.

jude didn’t respond. which was usually when you knew you were right.

your hands moved slightly higher, carefully working through the area that had been bothering him since training. you didn’t need him to point it out anymore—after enough sessions, you already knew where he held the most tension. and the second you found it, the smallest reaction gave him away. his shoulders tightened beneath your hands for just a moment.

a quick inhale. a slight shift against the table. nothing dramatic. nothing he could later claim was a big deal. but enough that you you felt it. and he knew you did, because the room suddenly went quiet. the confident answer he had been ready to give disappeared before he could say it.

“are you okay?” you asked softly. there was no teasing in your voice this time. no little hint of victory like there usually was whenever you caught him contradicting himself. just genuine concern. “did i hurt you?”

and somehow, that was worse for him.

because jude could handle being challenged. he could handle you arguing back, rolling your eyes at him, telling him he was being dramatic. that was familiar territory. that was where he could fight back, where he could throw another joke your way and pretend he wasn’t affected.

but this?

this was different. you weren’t arguing with him. you were simply noticing. and jude had always been terrible at hiding things from you.

there was a pause. a long enough pause that you knew he was thinking of an answer.

you knew that expression without even needing to see his face properly—the quiet moment where he was searching for a way to prove himself right, even when he already knew there wasn’t one.

jude stayed completely still on the table, his eyes fixed somewhere ahead like he was suddenly very interested in absolutely anything except admitting you had found the exact place that had been bothering him.

it was almost convincing. almost. because jude was good at a lot of things. football. confidence. pretending pressure didn’t get to him. but pretending his own body wasn’t reacting? not so much.

you continued watching him for another second, waiting. and then you saw it.

something so small that most people would have missed it. the slight movement of his fingers against the table. the tiny shift of his hand. a reflex. a giveaway. nothing dramatic. nothing he could turn into another argument. just enough to confirm what you already knew.

your lips pressed together, stopping yourself from smiling. because you knew him. you knew the exact moment he realised he had been caught. you knew the way he would try to act like it wasn’t a big deal. you knew he would rather defend himself for five minutes than simply admit that, yes, maybe you had been right.

“jude?” your eyebrow lifted slightly.

his usual confidence was gone for a second, replaced by the smallest look of surprise. because he knew you. he knew you could spend the entire session calling him dramatic, telling him he was impossible, arguing with him about everything.

but the second you thought you had actually caused him discomfort?

you stopped.

his expression softened slightly.

“no,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter. “no, you’re fine.”

you studied him for another second, still unsure whether he was telling the truth or just trying to reassure you. because with jude, it was always difficult to tell.

“fine?” you asked softly. not accusing. just knowing. because you had heard that word from him too many times. and you had learned that when jude said he was “fine,” it could mean almost anything.

jude stayed quiet for a moment, his eyes shifting slightly towards you. he looked almost amused that you were still asking, like he couldn’t understand why you weren’t just accepting his word and moving on.

but you never did. not with him.

“are you sure?” you asked, your voice quieter this time. your hands remained still, giving him a chance to answer instead of immediately continuing. there was no impatience in your expression, no hint of annoyance—just that familiar concern he always tried to pretend he didn’t notice.

and that was probably what made it harder for him to keep pretending. because the truth was, yeah, it had caught him off guard. it wasn’t anything serious. it was just a sensitive spot, a bit more pressure than he expected after a long training session. but he knew you. he knew the second he admitted it hurt, you would immediately blame yourself. and he didn’t want that.

“yeah,” he finally said, but the answer came a little too quickly.

you watched him carefully. “jude.”

a quiet sigh left him. not annoyed. more like he had been caught. “it’s fine.”

“that’s not what i asked.”

he was quiet again. and that silence told you more than his words did. his fingers shifted slightly against the table before he relaxed them again.

“it just surprised me,” he admitted eventually, voice lower. “that’s all.”

your expression softened. “you could’ve told me.”

“i know,” he shrugged slightly, immediately regretting the movement when he realised he had given himself away again. “i just didn’t want you to think you hurt me.”

your expression softened slightly at his answer. because you knew him. you knew that hesitation.

jude could be honest about almost anything when it came to football. he could talk about a bad performance, a mistake, a match that didn’t go the way he wanted. he could stand in front of cameras and answer questions about pressure like he had already accepted every expectation placed on him.

but when it came to himself? when it came to admitting that something hurt, that he was tired, that maybe he had pushed a little too far?

that was where he always struggled.

your hands moved again, slower this time. more carefully. not because you were unsure of what you were doing, but because now you knew exactly where he was holding the tension. you adjusted the pressure, paying closer attention to every small reaction instead of letting him brush it off like he always did.

“jude.” the way you said his name made him quiet. not because he was worried. because he knew that tone. the one that meant you weren’t joking anymore. “you have to be more careful.”

your voice was quiet. not a lecture. not a complaint. just a reminder.

you could almost picture the thoughts running through his head—the instinctive urge to tell you he was fine, that it wasn’t a big deal, that he’d dealt with worse. because that was always his first response.

he let out a small breath, already knowing where this was going. jude didn’t answer immediately.

“i am careful.” the answer came softly. too softly.

and you couldn’t help but glance at him. not because you didn’t believe him. because you both knew that wasn’t entirely true.

a small sigh left him when he saw your expression.

“okay,” a pause. “maybe i could be better.”

that was probably the closest you were going to get. and somehow, you appreciated it more because of that.

you continued, your hands working through the remaining tension while the room stayed quiet around you.

“jude…” something about the way you said his name made him stop trying to defend himself. “if something hurts, you tell me.”

his eyes shifted slightly toward you.

you kept your focus on what you were doing, giving him the space to actually listen instead of turning it into another argument. “don’t wait until it gets worse.”

your fingers moved carefully over the area that had been bothering him, gentler now. “don’t just decide you can ignore it because you’re used to pushing through.”

for once, he didn’t interrupt. no joke. no teasing comment. nothing to distract from what you were saying. because he knew you weren’t saying it because you were annoyed. you were saying it because you cared.

“that’s what i’m here for.” the words were simple. but they made him quiet.

jude had always been surrounded by people who needed something from him. his performance. his effort. his best. but moments like this reminded him that there were people who didn’t need him to be anything. they just wanted him to be okay.

“you know you don’t have to pretend you’re fine with me, right?” the question was softer than the rest. almost like you already knew the answer.

jude looked away for a second. and that small movement told you everything. because he didn’t have a joke. didn’t have a clever reply. didn’t have anything to hide behind.

“yeah,” he finally said. quietly. “i know.”

and you believed him. not because he said it perfectly. not because he suddenly changed. but because for once, he let himself hear it.

for a while, neither of you said anything. and you didn’t mind. with jude, silence was rare.

he was always filling empty spaces—with jokes, complaints, random comments that somehow turned a five-minute conversation into twenty. he had a habit of talking whenever things got too quiet, like silence gave people too much of a chance to notice what he was feeling. but now, lying there, he didn’t seem to feel the need to fill it.

his shoulders had finally relaxed beneath your hands. the tension he had walked in with—the kind he swore wasn’t there—had slowly started to disappear, leaving behind the tiredness he usually tried so hard to hide.

you took your time finishing, making sure there wasn’t any remaining stiffness before pulling your hands away, giving his shoulders a gentle pat.

the absence of your touch made him realise the session was over before you even said anything.

“better?” you asked softly.

jude stayed still for a moment, his eyes fixed somewhere ahead. you knew that pause. it was the same one he always had when he was deciding whether to give you the honest answer or the answer he thought would end the conversation faster.

finally, he exhaled. “yeah.”

just one word. simple. honest. and somehow, that meant more than him admitting you were right ten minutes earlier.

“yeah?” you looked at him. because somehow, that simple answer surprised you more than any complaint would have.

the corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “don’t sound so shocked.”

you couldn’t help it. because you were. jude admitting something without a fight was rare enough to feel like a victory. not because you needed to be right. you just knew how difficult it was for him to stop arguing for once.

he could spend an entire session insisting he was fine, convincing himself that whatever he was feeling wasn’t worth mentioning, and somehow still look genuinely surprised when you noticed. so hearing him simply admit it made you pause. “i’m just impressed.”

the corner of his mouth lifted slightly. there it was. that look. the one that told you he already knew you were about to annoy him. “that sounds insulting.”

you looked at him, completely calm. “it’s not.”

“it definitely is.” his voice carried that familiar teasing tone, the one he used whenever he was trying to pretend he wasn’t amused.

you crossed your arms slightly, watching him. “it’s an observation.”

he shook his head, looking down for a second like he couldn’t believe you were serious. “you always have a way of making things sound worse.”

“and you always have a way of making simple things harder than they need to be.”

he opened his mouth. stopped. because he knew. you saw the exact moment he realised he didn’t have a comeback.

a small smile appeared on his face. “you enjoy that.”

“enjoy what?”

“being right.”

you gathered the supplies beside you, pretending to be more focused on putting everything away than on the fact that he was completely correct. “someone has to be.”

“there it is.”

you looked at him. “what?”

“that little smile.”

your expression immediately changed. “i’m not smiling.”

“you are.”

“i’m not.”

“you are.” he said it with so much certainty that you almost laughed. almost. because he looked far too pleased with himself for someone who had spent the first half of the session complaining.

“you’re unbelievable.”

he sat up slowly, reaching for his towel, the evidence of training still written all over him—the slight flush of exertion, the tiredness in his eyes, the faint scent of sweat mixed with the one that was unmistakably him. somehow, even like this, she thought he smelled good. “you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“it is.”

“and yet you keep helping me.” the words were said casually. almost like a joke. but there was something softer underneath them. because jude noticed things too. maybe not always with his own body. maybe not always when he should.

but he noticed you. the way you always remembered where he was sore. the way you knew when he was pretending. the way you never made him feel like needing help was a weakness.

you looked at him for a moment. “because someone has to make sure you don’t destroy yourself trying to prove you’re fine.”

for once, he didn’t joke, didn’t argue. he just nodded. small. quiet.

“i know.”

and you believed him. not because you thought he would suddenly stop being stubborn. you knew better than that. but because with jude, progress never looked like a big confession or a perfect promise. sometimes it was just him admitting he wasn’t fine. sometimes it was him letting someone take care of him.

and sometimes, it was simply saying—

“i’ll tell you next time.” the words were quiet. not a joke. not a promise he said just to make you stop worrying. a real one. and you knew that, because jude didn’t say things like that easily. he wasn’t someone who suddenly became open just because the moment called for it. he was still the same person who would rather joke his way out of a conversation than admit something was bothering him.

but this time, he didn’t. he just looked at you for a second, like he was making sure you understood that he meant it.

your expression softened. you knew he would still be stubborn tomorrow. you knew he would probably still try to convince you he was fine before you even asked. you knew he wasn’t going to magically change overnight.but this was something. a small step.

and with jude, sometimes that was enough.

you opened your mouth to say something, but before you could—

the door opened. the change in his expression was almost immediate. a second ago, he had been quieter than usual—relaxed, finally not fighting every comment you made, the usual stubbornness softened after the session. but the moment someone else walked in? there it was again. that familiar look. the one that made you wonder if he had somehow recovered enough energy in the last five minutes purely to start being annoying again.

“there you are.” jude’s manager, tuchel, stood in the doorway, glancing between the two of you with an amused expression. “i was wondering where you disappeared to.”

he didn’t look surprised. if anything, he looked like he had walked in on something he had already seen a hundred times before. his eyes moved from jude sitting comfortably on the table to you finishing up the room, and the smallest smile appeared on his face.

before you could even answer, jude lifted his hand and pointed at you. immediately. dramatically. like he had been waiting for someone to arrive so he could finally make his complaint. “she’s keeping me here.”

you slowly turned your head toward him. “excuse me?”

jude didn’t even look guilty. if anything, he looked completely convinced that he was the victim in this situation.

tuchel watched the exchange with quiet amusement, clearly used to this exact kind of conversation. “is he giving you trouble again?”

“always.” you didn’t even hesitate. not even a second. the answer came so naturally that jude immediately looked offended.

he turned towards you, eyebrows raised in exaggerated disbelief, like he genuinely couldn’t believe the betrayal he was experiencing. after everything. after the entire session where he had apparently been “suffering.” after being forced to admit you were right. this was how you described him?

you looked at him, completely unimpressed. “what?”

he shook his head slowly, placing a hand over his chest like he was personally wounded. “i come here for the abuse.”

there was a brief pause. and then tuchel started laughing. the kind of laugh that wasn’t even surprising anymore, because somehow that was exactly the answer everyone expected from jude.

you tried to hold back your own laugh, but the second you saw the completely serious expression on his face, you failed. “you’re actually ridiculous.”

jude looked between the two of you, clearly pleased that he had managed to turn the situation in his favour. “thank you.”

“that wasn’t a compliment.”

“still taking it.”

you rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop the small chuckle that slipped out.

his manager shook his head, still smiling as he stepped back toward the door. “i’ll leave you two to it.”

“finally,” jude said, watching him leave. “someone understands me.”

you turned your head slowly, staring at him with an expression that made it clear he had somehow managed to misunderstand the entire situation. “that is not what happened.”

but he was already smiling, completely satisfied with himself. and just like that, the serious moment from earlier faded into the familiar teasing you both knew so well.

because with jude, there was always going to be an argument. there was always going to be a reason why he was “fine,” a joke when things got too serious, and a stubborn attempt to have the last word.

but there was also always going to be trust, a quiet promise to do better, and a laugh waiting right after.

"so what, you just.. sit here all the time and watch us play? kinda boring, innit?" jude questions, looking down at you as you sit on the bench, a cup of iced coffee in your hand.

"yeah. it's kinda fun. plus, who'd miss up the opportunity to watch hot sweaty guys run around shirtless?" you smirk, poking fun at him.

jude rolls his eyes, sitting down next to you and stretching his long legs out, toned dark thighs pressing against yours.

"don't you have school? swear, you're more unemployed than me." he nudges you, looking you up and down for the third time in the past 10 minutes.

you shrug, sipping the iced coffee. "i do. i just.. tend to skip. hate it there."

"yeah.. yeah. schools ass. maybe you should start playing footie. then you'd have an excuse to skip."

"only if id be like, super good and famous." you sigh, looking at the sky with furrowed eyebrows as if you were genuinely considering it.

"sounds like me." jude smirks, leaning back against his elbows to sit more comfortably.

"ew."

"wha-" "cocky footballers might be the death of me."

"im not cocky. " jude mumbles, now frowning in offense.

you stare at him, raising an eyebrow as if saying you sure?

jude grumbles, rolling his eyes. "okay, sometimes. so? being confident is the way to live."

"confident and cocky aren't the same thing, dumbass. you're.. kinda a mix of both." you reply, really looking at him this time.

"like, in a good way?" jude winks, making you scoff in return which turns his smirk into another frown.

"get back to training, dude. dads gonna kill me if you fall off." you push his bicep softly, trying not to moan at how hard and big it is.

"yeah yeah.. ill be back. keep watching me, pretty!" he runs off, joining the rest of the team in laps.

"hmf.. he's kinda cute." you mumble, watching him from afar as you bite your lip.

"THE jude bellingham flirted with you?! do you understand how crazy that is?!" your friend, lucy shouts at you, smacking your hand repeatedly in excitement.

"ow, ow! i didn't say he flirted with me. he kinda just.. gassed himself up in front of me. typical." you roll your eyes, leaning against her pillows on her queen sized bed.

"y/n, im serious. you can't pass up an opportunity like this. think about the money, the fame, the dick!" she squeals, jumping around and already imagining your future as a wag.

"no, no, and no. well, maybe." you ponder, looking off. "he is cute.. but, who says he actually wants me? im not getting played by a footballer. that's disgraceful."

"if a man like this played me, id thank him."

"that's cause you have no self respect."

"hey!"

you take her phone from her, scrolling through his instagram and biting your lip, something you tend to do when you see jude.

"just, give it a chance. flirt back. see what happens. and update me!" lucy demands, watching your face carefully as you sigh, eyes turning to her.

"fine. but if he rejects me, im killing myself out of embarrassment. and then im gonna haunt you for causing this."

"yea bla bla bla! trust me. in two months, you're gonna be making out and having sex in some hotel room suite of his in miami."

two months later.. the world cup has been absolutely insane, your dad taking you along with him to watch the english team matches.

since you're both familiar with the team and your dad being their regular coach - vip access was basically a gift from the team.

it's about 2 am in new york. you're standing off to the side of the celebration party after the 2-0 win against panama. jude scored first, with harry kane securing the win in the 67th minute.

you've been watching jude for the past 20 minutes as he gets congratulated left and right. shaking about 60 hands in one night.

when he's finally free from all the praise, he walks over to you and leans against the wall next to you, looking at you. "hey, pretty."

"good game. congrats on the win." you smirk softly, looking up at him due to the height difference.

"thanks.. thanks. i saw you in the stands you know. spences jersey? seriously? he barely played." jude rolls his eyes, clearly upset you didn't favour him over his teammate.

"chill out. i just bought the one that was available. yours were all sold out, mr popular."

he snickers, leaning down to look at your face in more detail, his minty clean breath hitting your senses.

"wanna.. wanna come to my hotel room? we can celebrate.. just the two of us." his hands finds yours, tracing your manicured nails.

"is that an invitation to fuck?"

"i mean, if you want it to be." he shrugs, licking his bottom lip as he stares at yours.

"don't get ahead of yourself , big boy. take me on a date first." you press a finger against his chest, staring up with a challenging smirk.

"a date?.. okay. i can work with that." he nods, taking a deep breath to calm his nerves.

"maybe when we get back to england.. yeah?" you suggest, blinking up at him softly through your lashes.

A half-empty mug of coffee sat beside yours, still faintly steaming, while Jude’s was already drained except for the faint ring at the bottom. The blanket you’d pulled over your legs sometime after breakfast had slipped halfway to the floor, one corner pooling near his bare feet. Denise had left earlier for her yoga class; you’d caught her in the kitchen making coffee and the two of you had chatted softly about nothing important while Jude was still half-asleep upstairs. Now the place felt gently emptied out, just the low hum of the fridge in the kitchen and the occasional distant sound of traffic filtering up from the street below.

You were curled into the corner of the big sectional sofa, legs tucked under you, still in the soft Alo workout set you’d thrown on after your early Pilates class. The fabric was comfortable, slightly sweat-damp from the session, and it smelled faintly of the lavender detergent you used at your own place. Jude lounged at the other end, barefoot in white joggers that rode low on his hips and an oversized black T-shirt that had seen better days. He had one arm stretched along the back of the sofa, the other holding the remote loosely as he scrolled through YouTube with the casual indifference of someone who wasn’t really looking for anything specific.

A football skills compilation started playing, some kid in Brazil doing ridiculous step-overs, and Jude let out a soft huff of amusement, tilting his head. “Look at that touch,” he murmured, more to himself than you, though his gaze flicked your way for half a second. His fingers tapped idly against the cushion near your shoulder, a small unconscious rhythm. You kept scrolling through your phone, smiling faintly at a friend’s story, the comfortable silence stretching between you like it always did on these mornings. No need to fill it.

After a few minutes the video switched to a chaotic British cooking clip, someone attempting to make Sunday roast in what looked like a student kitchen. Jude laughed under his breath, the sound low and easy, and shifted his weight so his leg stretched out, his bare foot nudging gently against your ankle. “You seeing this? Bloke’s about to burn the whole flat down. Reminds me of that time I tried cooking for the lads last year. Disaster.”

You glanced up, lowering your phone a fraction. “You mean the time you set off the smoke alarm making toast?”

“It was fancy toast tho,” he corrected, grinning. His foot stayed resting against yours, warm skin against skin, a casual point of contact that neither of you acknowledged. He reached over without looking away from the screen and stole your phone for a second, tilting it to see what you’d been looking at. “Instagram again? You’re ignoring my superior entertainment over here.”

You snatched it back with a quiet laugh, bumping his knee with yours in retaliation. “Your superior entertainment is a man crying over lumpy gravy. I’m catching up on actual human lives.”

“Harsh,” he said, but his eyes crinkled with amusement. He stretched, the oversized shirt riding up slightly, then settled again, this time scooting a little closer under the pretense of adjusting the blanket. His hand landed lightly on your thigh, just above the knee, thumb brushing once in an absentminded circle before it stilled.

The YouTube algorithm wandered next to a funny animal video, then back to a quick highlight reel of his own goals from last season. Jude watched himself on the screen with a small, self-deprecating shake of his head. “Still can’t believe that one went in. Felt terrible off the boot.”

You set your phone down on the cushion between you, finally giving the screen more attention. The sunlight shifted, warming the side of his face and highlighting the details across his nose that only showed up in certain angle.

Minutes passed like that, easy, unhurried. He commented on the videos occasionally, voice relaxed and expressive, and you offered small replies or teasing jabs that made him chuckle. Jude's hand stayed on your leg, fingers occasionally tapping along to some internal beat only he could hear. At one point he nudged your foot again with his, hooking his ankle loosely behind yours for a moment before letting go, all without taking his eyes off the TV.

Eventually the videos looped into something quieter, a travel vlog through Spanish countryside. Jude’s thumb resumed its slow, unconscious sweep on your thigh. “We should do something like that one off-season,” he said softly. “Just drive somewhere. No schedule.”

You turned your head to look at him properly. He was already watching you instead of the screen, that playful spark still in his eyes but softened around the edges by the lazy morning. “Only if you promise not to turn it into a fitness bootcamp.”

He smiled, slow and genuine, the kind that showed how much he was enjoying his morning off.“No promises. But I’ll let you pick the playlist.” The teasing lilt in his voice lingered, and something in the way you held his gaze made the moment stretch.

You raised an eyebrow. “Let me? Generous of you.”

That earned a quiet laugh from him, warm and close. He leaned in just a fraction, as if to deliver another retort, but the words didn’t come. Instead the look held: comfortable, familiar, the kind built from nights spent side by side and mornings exactly like this. His smile softened further, you smiled back, raising your eyebrows in an attempt to mirror the question in your head: "what's wrong?".

His thumb continued its slow sweep on your thigh, the motion so habitual it seemed he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. The oversized black T-shirt had twisted slightly around his torso from all the shifting, and a faint line from the sofa cushion pressed into his cheek where he’d been leaning earlier.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he said after a beat, voice low and a little rough from the quiet morning. The corner of his mouth quirked higher, like he could see the question behind your raised brows. “Just thinking you look comfortable. Proper relaxed. Suits you.” He gave your thigh a light, affectionate squeeze, the kind that said he liked having you here more than any grand statement could. His foot found yours again under the slipped blanket, toes brushing lazily against your ankle before hooking gently behind it, anchoring the contact.

You let out a soft breath of amusement, the kind that wasn’t quite a laugh but carried the same ease. “High praise from someone who just spent twenty minutes watching himself on YouTube.”

Jude chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest and vibrating faintly where his arm still rested along the back of the sofa near your shoulders.

He didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned in a fraction more, drawn by the familiar rhythm of your teasing. The travel vlog played on, forgotten now, rolling hills and olive groves flickering across the screen while neither of you glanced at it. His free hand lifted from the remote, landing lightly on the cushion between you before his fingers found the edge of your workout top, tracing the seam near your hip in an absent, exploratory way. Not purposeful. Just the natural drift of touch when words felt secondary.

“Oi, I was scouting technique,” he murmured, eyes still on yours. The Brummie lilt thickened a touch with the lazy drawl of morning. “Important research. You should be impressed.” His thumb brushed higher on your thigh, then stilled as he tilted his head slightly, studying the way the sunlight caught in your hair. The space between your faces had narrowed without either of you deciding to close it, close enough now that you could feel the warmth of his breath, coffee and the faint mint from his toothpaste earlier.

One of his knees pressed against yours, solid and warm through the thin layers of clothing. His fingers at your hip slipped under the hem of your top by a centimeter, not seeking, just resting skin to skin in that unconscious way he did when the morning felt slow and safe.

Then you said something small, half a tease about his “research methods”, and Jude’s eyes crinkled with another quiet laugh. That laugh brought him the last inch. His lips brushed yours lightly at first, almost an extension of the shared smile, the kind of accidental contact that happens when two people are already leaning into the same small orbit. He exhaled softly against your mouth, the sound carrying a hint of surprise and delight, before pressing in again with more intention. The kiss stayed gentle, exploratory, his lips warm and slightly dry from the morning air. You felt him smile into it, the curve unmistakable, and when your noses bumped he pulled back just enough to let out a low, breathy chuckle that fanned across your cheek.

“Clumsy today,” he whispered, voice laced with amusement, but he didn’t move far. His hand slid from your thigh to your waist, palm broad and steady, fingers splaying naturally against the curve there as he drew you a little nearer. The other hand came up to cradle the side of your jaw, thumb tracing the line of your cheek in a slow sweep. He leaned back in, the rhythm unhurried, kisses that lingered and shifted, sometimes softer, sometimes a touch deeper, guided by the quiet give and take of breathing together. His fingers threaded lightly into the hair at the nape of your neck, not gripping, just holding with the same casual affection he showed in everything else.

You tasted the lingering coffee on him, felt the faint scratch of stubble against your skin when he tilted his head. Another soft laugh escaped him when your hand found the front of his oversized T-shirt, bunching the fabric slightly. He paused once, forehead resting against yours, eyes half-lidded as he looked at you up close, really looked, the kind of pause that said he was savoring the ordinary miracle of this exact moment.

Then Jude shifted, the sofa creaking faintly under his weight as he rearranged himself. He leaned back more fully into the corner of the sectional, stretching one long leg out along the cushions before patting his thigh in a clear, casual invitation. His gaze stayed on you, playful but soft, the corner of his mouth lifted in that familiar half-smile. “Come here,” he said quietly, voice low and easy, like it was the most natural suggestion in the world.

You hesitated, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes properly. “Really?”

He raised his eyebrows, nodding once with an amused little tilt of his head, as if to say yes, really. “What, you acting shy now?” The teasing lilt crept back into his tone, warm and familiar. “Not like it’s our first kiss or anything.”

Your gaze flicked briefly toward the direction of the front door, the quiet of the apartment suddenly feeling a little more fragile. Denise could walk back in from yoga at any minute. The thought made you pause, even as the warmth of his hand lingered at your waist. Jude seemed to read it on your face immediately. He let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head.

“Oh, c’mon,” he said, patting his thigh again, more insistently this time. “My mum likes you more than me anyway. She knows we sleep together—she’s not blind.” His fingers gave your side a gentle squeeze, reassuring and playful all at once. “She’s probably doing extra sun salutations just to give us time.”

The silence stretched for another beat, your hesitancy still written across your expression. Jude’s eyes softened further, the competitive edge melting into something gentler, more coaxing. He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your face with the back of his knuckles. “C’mon baby,” he murmured, the endearments slipping out naturally. “Come here.” He patted his thigh one more time, an open invitation, then added with a low, boyish laugh, “Let your boyfriend have some motivation this morning, yeah? Before I have to go get shouted at on the pitch.”

The words, delivered with that expressive, slightly cheeky grin, finally tipped the balance. You moved, and Jude helped guide you with easy hands on your hips, settling you astride his lap so your knees sank into the cushions on either side of him. The position brought you closer, chests brushing, his oversized T-shirt bunching between you. His hands settled naturally at your waist, thumbs tracing small circles through the soft fabric of your workout set, while he looked up at you with open affection. No rush. Just the same comfortable intimacy that had carried the whole morning, now wrapped a little tighter.

“See? Not bad at all,” he murmured, voice low and warm with that playful lilt, one eyebrow raised like he was proving a point. His hands gave your waist a gentle squeeze, more reassurance than anything else, before one slid slowly up your back, palm broad and steady against the fabric of your top. “Come here,” he added softly, the words almost under his breath as he tilted his chin up.

You leaned down and the kiss picked up where it had left off, slow at first, familiar. Jude smiled against your mouth the moment your lips met, the curve of it impossible to miss. His hand at your waist stayed put, thumb still moving in those absent circles, while the other drifted up to cradle the back of your neck, fingers threading lightly into your hair. The contact was constant but easy, like he simply preferred some part of him touching you at all times. When your noses bumped awkwardly he broke the kiss with a quiet laugh, forehead resting against yours for a second as he caught his breath.

“Seriously?” he teased, eyes crinkling with amusement. “Every time.” But he didn’t pull away. He just tilted his head the other direction and leaned back in, the kiss deepening a touch, unhurried. His fingers at the back of your neck rubbed gently, a soothing rhythm, while his other hand slipped lower to rest on your thigh, palm warm through your leggings. You could feel the faint rise and fall of his chest against yours, the steady beat of his heart.

He kept the little comments coming between breaths, nothing elaborate, just the natural flow of his thoughts. “Missed this,” he whispered against your lips at one point, the words slipping out like they were nothing and everything at once. When you smiled into the next kiss he let out another soft laugh, the sound vibrating between you, and paused again, forehead to forehead, eyes half-open as he studied your face up close. “You alright?” he asked quietly, thumb brushing along your jaw now, checking in the way he always did: casual, genuine, never making a big deal of it.

You nodded, and he smiled again—the make-out stayed lazy and affectionate, the kind that ebbed and flowed with the quiet morning rather than racing anywhere. His hand on your thigh gave a light squeeze when you shifted closer, then moved back to your waist, anchoring you gently.

Eventually the kisses slowed of their own accord, not because either of you wanted to stop, but because there was nowhere left to rush. They dissolved into smaller moments instead—his lips lingering once against the corner of yours, another absent kiss to your cheek, the bridge of your nose, your forehead. His breathing gradually evened beneath you, the lazy rhythm matching your own until the room fell quiet again.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

The travel vlog had wandered somewhere along the southern coast now, the narrator enthusiastically explaining a tiny seaside village neither of you had been paying attention to for the last ten minutes. Sunlight had crept further across the living room, warming the edge of the coffee table and catching the forgotten mugs still sitting where you'd left them after breakfast.

Jude's hand never really stopped moving.

It rested against the small of your back now, fingertips tracing slow, thoughtless patterns through the fabric of your top while the other remained comfortably around your waist. It wasn't an attempt to start anything again. It was simply what his hands seemed to do whenever you were close enough to reach.

You let your head settle against his shoulder, your cheek brushing the soft cotton of his T-shirt. From here you could hear the steady beat of his heart beneath it, slower now than it had been only moments before. His chin came to rest lightly against the top of your head.

For someone whose life was measured in fixture lists, departure gates and recovery schedules, Jude had always been unexpectedly good at doing absolutely nothing.

He never seemed to grow restless in moments like these. There was no instinct to reach for his phone, no urge to fill the silence simply because it existed. He was content to let the apartment breathe around the two of you, to let the television chatter unnoticed in the background, to trace absent patterns against your back without any destination in mind. It was one of the first things you'd learned about him, and somehow one of the things you cherished most.

author's note — no one is going to read this so wtv heheheh BALLBLR PLS ACCEPT ME. cozy makeout with jude >>>>>