#dorabellingham

♡ Make-out sessions

♡ He’s definitely the type to smile into kisses. Like, you’ll pull away for a second and he’s already grinning because he knows you’re flustered.

♡ He kisses you everywhere except your lips just to tease you.

"Nope.”

kiss on your forehead.

"Still not here.”

♡ One hand always finds your waist. It’s almost subconscious. Whether you’re standing in the kitchen or sitting on his lap, his hand naturally settles there.

♡ If you’re talking during a make-out session, he’ll stop just to listen. He’s genuinely interested in whatever random story you’re trying to tell, even if you’re both completely distracted.

♡ Loves slow kisses more than rushed ones. He’s in absolutely no hurry.

♡ If you laugh mid-kiss, he’ll laugh too. Neither of you can stay serious for long.

♡ He’ll brush your hair behind your ear before kissing you again, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

♡ After a while, he’ll rest his forehead against yours and just breathe for a second because he likes the closeness as much as the kisses themselves.

♡ Little intimate moments

♡ You’re lying on the sofa together, and he absentmindedly traces circles on your back while watching a movie.

♡ He loves when your legs are tangled together. Physical touch is almost a comfort language for him.

♡ Random forehead kisses. Constantly.

♡ If you’re wearing one of his hoodies, he pretends to complain.

“I’m never getting that back, am I?”

…before pulling you into another hug because you look too cute in it.

♡ He memorizes tiny things without realizing it.

Your coffee order, the side of the bed you prefer, which songs make you sleepy and that exact way you scrunch your nose when you’re concentrating.

♡ Protective, but not possessive

♡ Walking on the side closest to the road.

♡ Automatically reaching for your hand when crossing the street.

♡ Checking that you got home safely, but never in an overbearing way.

♡ If someone makes you uncomfortable, he notices almost immediately.

He doesn’t make a dramatic scene. He simply appears beside you, wraps an arm around your shoulders and changes the conversation so naturally that only you realize what he’s doing.

♡ The softest boyfriend

♡ Loves being the little spoon… but will deny it.

♡ He melts if you play with his curls. Seriously.

He becomes incapable of forming coherent sentences.

♡ If you’re reading a book, he’ll quietly put his head in your lap and scroll on his phone just because he likes being near you.

♡ He’s the kind of boyfriend who randomly whispers:

“You’re really pretty.”

Not because you’re dressed up. Just because he looked at you.

♡ His love language

I think Jobe would be a mix of:

♡ Physical touch.

♡ Quality time.

♡ Acts of service.

He’s not necessarily the biggest “grand romantic gesture” guy.

Instead, love looks like:

♡ making you tea before you’ve asked,

♡ charging your phone because he noticed it was on 8%,

♡ warming up your side of the bed,

♡ tying your shoelace because your hands are full,

The summer in Paris had a peculiar way of turning the “City of Light” into a golden furnace. The asphalt of the avenues seemed to pulse beneath the July heat, and the air, usually filled with the aroma of coffee and car exhaust, now carried the sweet scent of linden blossoms and the lingering smell of sunscreen. For Isadora Beauvoir Marx, the heat was a silent enemy that tested the British patience inherited from her father, while her French half tried, unsuccessfully, to maintain elegance in the midst of the thirty-four-degree temperatures punishing the capital.

—Mon Dieu, Désiré, if you tell me one more time that training was under the sun and that I shouldn’t be complaining, I swear I’ll throw you into the Seine.

You muttered, brushing the back of your hand across your damp forehead.

You were sitting in the passenger seat of Désiré’s car, an air-conditioned luxury vehicle that was the only reason you hadn’t suffered a nervous breakdown yet. You wore a light, short white linen dress, and your hair was tied up in a deliberately messy high bun, exposing the nape of your neck where a few stubborn strands clung to your skin.

Désiré Doué, on the other hand, seemed completely at home. The PSG Golden Boy had one arm resting on the window, his fingers tapping the steering wheel to the rhythm of a French rap song playing softly on the radio. He wore only a black tank top that highlighted his defined muscles, tanned skin, and tattoos, all of which seemed to glow beneath the sun.

— Calme-toi, Princesse. — He laughed, flashing that easy, self-assured smile that always disarmed you. — I only said that you’re beautiful when you’re irritated. The heat makes you piquante.

— Piquante? — You raised an eyebrow, your sarcasm as sharp as ever. — I’m melting, Désiré. My brain is turning into fondue. Where are you taking us? If there isn’t water involved, I’m jumping out of this moving car.

— Promis! — He promised, casting you a quick yet intense glance. — We’re going to a refuge. A place where journalists don’t go and where my girlfriend can stop complaining for five minutes and enjoy the sun.

You had been officially together long enough that each other’s presence felt as natural as breathing. The phase of stolen kisses in the Jardin des Tuileries had given way to a solid companionship, although discretion remained the golden rule due to his meteoric rise to fame. But that day, Désiré didn’t want to think about game tactics or the pressure from supporters. He only wanted you.

He drove out of the bustling city center toward a private property on the outskirts of Boulogne-Billancourt, owned by a friend of the Doué family who was traveling. It was a villa hidden behind high walls and ivy-covered fences, with a garden that looked like an Impressionist painting and, most importantly, an infinity pool reflecting the flawless blue of the Parisian sky.

As soon as the electronic gate closed behind you, the silence and cool shade of the trees wrapped around the car. You sighed, feeling the tension leave your shoulders.

— Enfin, amour!

You whispered.

— Do you like it, ma belle?

Désiré parked and turned off the engine, turning toward you.

— It’s acceptable… — you replied, though your eyes sparkled with relief. — Now move. I need water.

You got out of the car and headed toward the pool area. The gentle sound of water spilling over the edge was music to your ears. Désiré, however, wasn’t looking at the pool. He was watching you as you set your straw bag on one of the loungers and began unbuttoning your linen dress.

— Aren’t you going to change in the dressing room?

He asked, his voice suddenly a shade deeper as he leaned against a stone pillar.

You paused, the dress already half open, revealing the thin straps of an emerald-green bikini that contrasted perfectly with your skin. You shot him a challenging look, the kind that said you knew exactly the effect you had on him.

— Why would I? There’s nobody here, Désiré. Just the two of us. And the trees.

You finished removing the dress and let it fall onto the lounger.

Doué felt his throat go dry. You were petite, but every curve seemed sculpted with a precision that left him breathless. The bikini was minimalist, tied with delicate bows at the hips, and the confidence with which you moved—that blend of reserve and audacity—was what fascinated him most.

— Putain…

He muttered under his breath, a curse that always slipped out whenever he lost control of his words.

You smiled, a crooked smile, genuinely amused.

— What is it, baby? Lost your voice? I thought you were the expert when it came to handling pressure.

Désiré took a few steps toward you, the heat of the sun now competing with the warmth rising through his chest. He stopped only inches away, intoxicated by the scent of lavender and sun-warmed skin.

— The pressure at the Parc des Princes is nothing compared to you in that bikini, Princesse.

His voice was rough.

He reached out and lightly touched your waist, where your skin was soft and warm.

— You’re beautiful.

You felt the familiar flutter in your stomach. No matter how much sarcasm you used as armor, the way Désiré looked at you—as though you were the only thing that mattered in the world—always managed to break through your defenses. You placed your hands against his chest, feeling his accelerated heartbeat beneath the tank top.

— Less talking, Doué. — you whispered, moving your face closer to his. — I want to swim.

— So do I.

He replied, but before you could pull away, he drew you into a kiss.

It was a kiss that tasted like summer: warm, urgent, and deep. Désiré held you firmly, as if he wanted to preserve that moment, that peace, that feeling that you belonged to him as much as he belonged to you. When you finally parted, both of you were slightly breathless.

He removed his tank top and shorts in quick movements, revealing the athlete’s physique that made him one of the most sought-after footballers in Europe. But there, beneath that sun, he wasn’t PSG’s star player; he was simply the boy who had loved you long before everything began.

— Race to the water?

He challenged, his eyes gleaming with his usual competitiveness.

— You have legs that are practically two meters long, Désiré! That’s unfair.

You protested, though you were already running.

You dove in almost simultaneously, the shock of cool water against sun-heated skin provoking surprised shrieks and laughter. The pool was an oasis. The next hour was spent playing like children, Désiré trying to dunk you underwater while you retaliated with perfectly aimed splashes, calling him a “spoiled boy” while he called you an “irritated little mermaid.”

Eventually, the heat and the playfulness left you both tired, and you drifted toward the edge of the pool. You rested your arms on the marble ledge, gazing at Paris in the distance, the Eiffel Tower standing like a sentinel on the hazy horizon.

— C’est parfait.

Murmured Désiré, pulling you closer against him beneath the water.

— Yeah…

You agreed, resting your head on his shoulder.

— Sometimes I forget how beautiful Paris can be when we’re not trying to run away from someone.

Désiré kissed the top of your head.

— I wish every day could be like this. No training sessions, no cameras. Just me, you, and that bad mood of yours that I love.

You nudged him lightly with your elbow.

— I don’t have a bad mood. I have personality. It’s different.

— Bien sûr, Madame.

He laughed, using the title that always made you blush, reminding you of the promise represented by the rings you both still carried, even if they weren’t always visible.

— But admit it… you like it when I bring you to places like this. You like being my Princesse.

You sighed, closing your eyes and enjoying the warmth of the sun on your face and the coolness of the water around your body. Turning in his arms, you wrapped your arms around Désiré’s neck, your fingers disappearing into his damp curls.

— I like being with you, Désiré. The place doesn’t matter that much.

You paused, your sarcasm returning in a whisper.

♡ What kind of boyfriend he is

♡ Lamine would be a very physical boyfriend. Not necessarily in a sexual way, he just constantly needs some sort of contact with you. His hand on your thigh while you’re sitting together, fingers intertwined while you’re walking, his arm around your shoulders when you’re watching something.

♡ He’d have this habit of pulling you closer without even thinking about it. You could be sitting on opposite sides of the couch and five minutes later you’re practically in his lap because apparently there was “too much space.”

♡ He’s playful. Extremely playful.

He’d steal your phone, hide your things, send you stupid tiktos while you’re literally sitting next to him, make fun of your expressions and then immediately kiss your cheek when you pretend to be annoyed.

♡ But he’s also surprisingly attentive.

He’d remember tiny things you mentioned once. Your favorite snack. The drink you always order. The song you said you loved three months ago.

♡ He’d be the kind of boyfriend who says, “I saw this and thought of you,” while handing you something completely ridiculous.

♡ He loves making you laugh. Probably more than almost anything else.

If you’re upset, his first instinct isn’t always to give you a huge speech. Sometimes he’ll sit beside you, make a stupid face, nudge your shoulder and quietly say, “Vamos, sonríe por mí."

♡ The affection

♡ Lamine would have a ridiculous amount of little kisses.

Forehead kisses. Cheek kisses.

The top of your head when you’re cuddling.

A quick kiss before leaving.

Another one because apparently the first one “didn’t count.”

♡ If you’re cooking, he’d come up behind you and wrap his arms around your waist.

♡ If you’re brushing your hair, he’d sit behind you and play with the ends.

♡ If you’re lying down together, he’d probably rest his head on your stomach or chest and complain dramatically if you move.

♡ He’d absolutely have a favorite place to kiss you. Your cheek.

Especially when you’re talking. You’d be explaining something and he’d just lean over and kiss your cheek mid-sentence.

“Lamine.”

“What?”

“I’m talking.”

“I know.”

“…Then why did you kiss me?”

“Because I wanted to.”

And he’d look completely unbothered.

♡ Make-out sessions

♡ His make-out sessions would start innocently.

A kiss while you’re sitting together.

Then another.

Then you laugh against his lips because he said something stupid.

And then he kisses you again because he doesn’t want you laughing anymore.

♡ He’d be very teasing about it.

♡ He’d love when you instinctively grab onto his shirt.

♡ He’d probably smile against your lips when he notices.

♡ And he’d be the type to pause occasionally just to look at you, brush your hair away from your face and kiss your forehead before going back to kissing you.

♡ Sometimes the whole thing would dissolve into giggling because one of you said something ridiculous.

That’s actually one of the sweetest parts.

It wouldn’t always be perfectly romantic and cinematic.

Sometimes you’d bump noses. Sometimes you’d start laughing. Sometimes he’d whisper something stupid against your lips and ruin the entire moment.

And somehow those would become your favorite memories.

♡ The little domestic things

♡ He’d steal your hoodies.

♡ He’d leave his clothes at your place.

♡ He’d send you pictures of his food.

♡ He’d call you when he’s bored.

♡ He’d ask what you’re doing and then proceed to distract you for the next forty minutes.

♡ He’d randomly send messages.

♡ Jealous

♡ Not controlling. Just… very obvious.

Someone flirts with you?

Suddenly his hand is around your waist.

♡ He’s still smiling, still being polite, but he’s definitely standing a little closer than necessary.

Later:

“You know that guy was flirting with you, right?”

“I know.”

“And you smiled.”

“Because he said something funny.”

Silence.

“…You think he’s funny?”

♡ And....

♡ I think Lamine would be the type of boyfriend who makes you feel included in his life.

Not just the glamorous parts.

Not just the football.

You’d know about the boring things.

The stressful things.

The funny things.

The family jokes.

The little things that happened during training.

The random thought he had at 2 a.m.

You’d become the person he naturally wants to tell things to.

♡ And that’s probably the most intimate thing about him.

Not the kisses.

Not the cuddling.

Not even the romantic gestures.

It’s the fact that, eventually, you become home to him.

It was an important game at Santiago Bernabeu, with Real Madrid facing one of its biggest rivals. Jude Bellingham was focussed, as always, but he didn't imagine that that night had a surprise he would never forget.

You had planned everything in secret. With Nala already completing seven months, you decided it was time to take her to the stadium for the first time. In addition, did you know that Jude would be thrilled to see the little one wearing the team's official shirt, personalised with the name "Bellingham" and the number 5 - the same as her father.

You arrived at the stadium with Nala in your arms, wearing a warm coat over the mini shirt. You went straight to the area reserved for the players' families, being welcomed by the WAGs, who were already looking forward to meeting the Bellingham's' daughter up close.

-You finally brought her, Y/n! -Joked one of the players' wives. -Jude will go crazy when he sees you here.

You smiled, adjusting your daughter's cute hat, which matched perfectly with the baby's look.

-He has no idea. I thought it was time to give dad a boost on the field.

Nala, unaware of the commotion around him, looked curiously at everything. The loud sounds, the lights and the energy of the stadium left her enchanted.

While the players were warming up on the lawn, you decided to go down a little to the area closest to the field, still in the reserved part, so that Jude could see it. Some teammates realised it first.

-Wait a minute... is it Nala?

Said Camavinga, pointing to the side.

Rodrygo, who was next to him, laughed.

-I can't believe it! Jude will have an attack when he realises.

And it didn't take long for your fiancé to look in the direction in which the companions were pointing. He stopped in the middle of the field, his eyes wide, and a gigantic smile took over his face. He waved excitedly, as if he wanted to make sure it was real.

You answered with a small nod, lifting Nala on your lap. The baby, as if understanding what was happening, gave an adorable giggle and babbled something indecipherable, making Jude smile even more.

-My daughter is here!

Jude exclaimed to his colleagues, visibly moved.

At halftime from the game, the boy went straight to where you were. He didn't even bother to take his eyes off his daughter, who was now more desperate and kept watching everything around her.

-You two killed me from the heart today. -He said, taking the baby in his arms. -Look at this shirt! 'Bellingham 5'... My girl is all stylish."

Nala grabbed her father's face with her little hands, making everyone around her sigh with tenderness.

-It's getting strong, huh?

Jude commented, kissing his daughter's cheek.

Some teammates approached, curious to meet the famous little girl. Vinícius was the first to joke.

-She already looks like a player, huh, Jude? It will be faster than you.

Rodrygo laughed, watching Nala grab Jude's finger tightly.

-Look at this! She's already practising the grip to hold the ball.

You laughed while watching the scene.

-Be careful, guys. Nala may end up becoming the team's official mascot.

After a few minutes, Jude had to go back to the field, but not without first kissing you and the little girl again. He was visibly more excited and inspired. Commentators and fans didn't take long to realise that something special was happening - Bellingham seemed more focussed and determined than ever.

The camera even captured a moment when he looked at the stands and smiled, discreetly waving to you. This, of course, left fans emotional on social networks, with many commenting: Baby Bellingham is already officially Real Madrid's biggest lucky amulet!

When the game ended with a spectacular victory, Jude ran straight to you again. He held his daughter in his arms and lifted him up, as if introducing the little one to the crowd, who went crazy.

Already in the car, Nala fell asleep on his lap, exhausted after so much news. You looked at Jude through the rearview mirror and smiled.

-Today was the best game of my life, you know?

He said, intertwining his fingers with yours.

-Of course it was. You had our amulet there with you.

You answered with a smile.

Jude laughed softly.

-Now that she came once, she will always have to come.

You pretended to sigh.

-It's good, Bellingham. I think we can turn Nala into Madrid's number one fan.

The night was still pouring warmly over Dortmund, and the balcony of Jobe's apartment seemed suspended in the air, accomplice of a forbidden and sweet secret. The table was already marked by the raw movements of before, the smell of sex mixed with that of spilled wine, the breathing still heavy in both. But you didn't seem satisfied to stop there, the brightness in your eyes denounced that you wanted more, you wanted to prolong that promise of eternity with something that was only yours, done calmly, but still incendiary.

You slipped from his lap, still panting, and walked barefoot until you took the almost empty wine bottle, filling two glasses with the unpretentious gesture of someone who had already decided the next step. Jobe watched you, sitting on the balcony chair, your naked body shining with sweat, his cock still hard, resting only for seconds. Your way, on your back, the crumpled red dress falling from your shoulders, the skin marked by his hands, made his blood boil again.

You turned slowly, bringing one of the cups, and handed it to him with a malicious smile, before leaning on his lap, sitting on his strong thighs as if it were your natural throne.

-You haven't finished yet, right, honey?

You provoked, your voice low, dragged by the accent.

He raised his glass, his dark eyes fixed on you, and took a sip slowly, savouring the wine while feeling the heat of your pussy settling against his cock.

-Not even close to that...

He replied, hoarsely, the lazy smile denouncing how much he was about to get lost again.

You held his base with your delicate hand, slowly guiding the tip against you, rubbing first, wetting it even more with your moisture, until they both gasped in unison. Only then did you go down slowly, sitting on him for real, the body opening centimetre by centimetre, the moans escaping in the rhythm of penetration.

-Oh my God...- the moan escaped dragged, your head tipping back, your breasts rising and falling as you swallowed it all.- Fuck!

The boy squeezed your thigh hard, but he didn't hurry at all. He took the glass of wine to his mouth again, drinking while watching, fascinated, you settle completely on his dick, your hips going down until he was buried until the end.

-What a view, my love, you're a delight... -He murmured, panting, his eyes devouring every detail: the dress down, the beaks of the hard breasts, the belly contracted with the effort. -There's nothing more beautiful or better than that to get as a gift today.

You began to move, first slow, savouring, your hip spinning in an intimate ballet that made his cock throb inside. He drank another sip, his mouth stained with wine, while the other hand slid down your body, holding your waist tightly, sometimes going up to his breast, squeezing, twisting his nipple between his fingers, pulling out your loudest moans.

-Oh... Jobe... so deep, huh?

You rolled slowly, the wet sound of your bodies filling the night, each descent pulling out of him a deep moan, a hoarse sigh.

He dropped the glass, leaving it on the table, and grabbed your hips with both big hands, guiding the rhythm, but still keeping it slow, almost reverent. His organ went in and out with soft, wet pops, and you looked at him with half-closed eyes, your mouth ajar, completely surrendered.

-Look how you sit on me. -He whispered, sliding his hand to your clitoris, rubbing in firm circles while making you sit down again. -What a beautiful thing, my darling...

You moaned louder, your whole body shaking, your hip accelerating involuntarily. His vision of you riding on him, your dishevelled hair swaying, the brightness of sweat illuminated by the city light, it was like a perfect erotic painting. Jobe didn't know whether to look at your face, contorted with pleasure, or at the way the cock disappeared inside you with every movement.

-Just like that, babe, keep going! - You put your hands on his chest, ridding faster now, every beat making the sound of skin against skin echo on the balcony. -I'm going... I'm going to cum again...

He pulled your right breast to his mouth, sucking hard, biting until you screamed, and at the same time rubbed your clitoris mercilessly.

-Shout, Y/n... let all of Germany listen...

He snored against your skin, his cock stocking deep, your hips going down without stopping.

Your scream exploded when you came, your whole body contracting, squeezing him inside in an almost painful way, pulling out of him deep, hoarse moans, while struggling on top of him.

The younger Bellingham held you tightly, his hips cracking against yours, and soon came too, gushing hot, deep, the wine still burning in the mouth, but nothing compared to the heat of the cum inside you.

Both were glued, panting, you lying against his shoulder, sweaty, laughing softly, your hip still shaking with the final spasms. He took the glass once again, drank the last sip of wine and ran his stained lips down his neck, muttering.

- I don't know if it was the wine, you or the birthday party... but I've never tasted anything so good.

You laughed, tired, your fingers drawing lazy circles on his chest.

-Definitely, it was me.

Jude was sitting on the couch, his legs stretched out on the coffee table as he watched a game on TV. You were next to him, a fashion magazine in your hands, occasionally exchanging glances with the screen to feign interest in the football. It was a quiet afternoon, but Jude seemed restless, fiddling with his phone and stealing glances in your direction. After a while, he let out a theatrical sigh, putting the phone aside.

—Have you noticed how everyone our age is starting to have kids?

You looked up from the magazine and arched an eyebrow.

—Everyone? Like who?

—Oh, I don’t know, my friends from Birmingham... some guys from the national team... even that influencer you like. —He made a broad gesture, as if he wanted to encompass the world. —It seems to be in fashion now.

You laughed, shaking your head.

—Babies aren’t a fad, Jude. They’re... babies. It’s hard work, you know?

Jude leaned forward a little, resting his elbows on his knees, with a smile on the corner of his mouth.

—But it must be amazing, right? Having a mini you or a mini me running around the house…

You let out a nervous laugh, closing the magazine.

—Are you telling me you want a baby, honey?

He paused dramatically, pretending to think.

—I’m not saying I want one now, but… it wouldn’t be bad, right?

You were silent for a moment, watching the way he looked at you, with a sparkle in his eyes that made you feel a mix of nervousness and affection.

—Jude, we barely managed to organize the house after the move. Do you really think a baby would be a good idea now?

He came closer, holding your hand with both of his.

—I know it wouldn’t be easy. But, honey, just imagine… a baby with your hair and my eyes. Or with your smile.

You couldn’t help but smile shyly, even though you were trying to look serious.

—What if the baby get stubborn? Or your habit of leaving things lying around?

—Or your habit of falling asleep in the middle of the movie?

Jude replied, laughing.

You laughed together, but Jude seemed determined to keep the subject alive.

—Seriously, Y/n. I’ve always thought about it, you know? Ever since I started playing professionally. Having someone to teach, to take to games... someone to call our own.

You stayed quiet, thinking. Bellingham had a persuasive way about him, but you knew he was being sincere. Still, the thought of having a baby seemed so distant to you, with college, travel plans and the whole life you still had ahead of you.

—Jude, I know you’d be an amazing father, but... isn’t it too soon? We’re still learning to live together, to deal with life here in Madrid...

—I know. —He squeezed your hand lightly, with a soft smile. —I’m not saying it has to be now. It’s just... something for us to think about.

You sighed, but you couldn't help the warmth you felt in your chest as you imagined the scene he described. A mini Jude running around the house, with the same messy hair and that charming smile. It was a sweet thought, but still scary.

—Okay, babe. We'll think about it. But just think about it, for now, okay?

He leaned in to kiss your lips quickly, with a satisfied gleam in his eyes.

—But I think we could start trying, right? Just to have practice.

—Jude Bellingham!

You said laughing as you stared at the boy in front of you.

—What, sweetie? —He said, feigning false innocence as he leaned his body over yours. —I know you like this idea as much as I do.

—Of course I do, babe, but where's the "let's think about it calmly" part?

You said, trying to stand firm with your position on the subject, but your husband's body was already on top of yours.

—Y/n, imagine our little baby here... —Jude said as he lifted your shirt and caressed your belly with his fingertips. —You're going to be the most beautiful pregnant woman in the world, babe.

You couldn't take it anymore, he talked so passionately about having a baby, the way he caressed your belly so delicately and how those brown eyes shone at you with a mischievous smile on his face.

It was a party night at the stadium, and Real Madrid had just won the La Liga championship. The team, the fans, everyone was cheering, but no one seemed happier and more relaxed than Jude. He was completely overcome with euphoria, hugging everyone who passed by —players, journalists, staff, it didn't matter who it was, he just wanted to share his happiness.

With a bottle of whisky in one hand and the La Liga trophy in the other, Jude danced and sang as if the world was watching (and it was). His smile was so wide it seemed permanent, and his laugh was contagious. When the background music changed to a lively funk, he wasted no time in starting to dance, with exaggerated steps and movements with the clumsy and fun touch of someone who was clearly a few glasses too many. In the midst of all this joy, he suddenly spotted you, who were there backstage, waiting for the right moment to congratulate him. Jude's eyes shone even brighter when he saw you, and he practically dropped the trophy, walking towards you with a passionate smile.

—BABE!

He shouted from the other side of the field, running towards you and, in the middle of the path, almost tripping over his own legs.

Arriving at your side, he pulled you into a tight hug, the strong smell of whisky in the air. Without letting go of you, he began to speak, the words coming out in a slurred and exaggerated way.

—Y/n, you are... you are the most incredible woman in the world! —He declared, his hands cupping your face adoringly. —Marry me? Please! I love you, I'm crazy about you!

You laughed, trying to keep your composure in front of your clearly drunk husband and the cameras that recorded every second of that moment.

—Jude, we're already married!

You reminded him, trying unsuccessfully to hide your amused smile.

But that didn't seem to make a difference to him. Jude continued with the scene, his eyes shining and his tone of voice rising even higher.

—No, no, babe! I want to marry you again! I need to hear you say ‘yes’!

He pulled one of your hands and, on his knees, began to make a dramatic marriage proposal right there, in the middle of the field, while the reporters around filmed and laughed.

—Y/n, my love! Marry me again, will you? Please?

He begged, reaching out to you, as if it were the first time.

You tried to contain your laughter, shaking your head in denial.

—Honey, no. Come on, get up. We’re already married!

You looked around, noticing that the reporters were absolutely amused by the situation, and gently patted his hand, trying to get him to stand up.

It was then that, to everyone’s shock and surprise, Bellingham, with the expression of a devastated man, began to cry. Yes, cry! He put one hand to his face, covering his eyes, and grabbed the microphone from a reporter standing next to him, his voice cracking.

—I WAS REJECTED! —He announced dramatically, as if he were on stage. —She doesn’t want to marry me! Everyone saw it… she doesn’t love me anymore! —He looked at the microphone and repeated it, so there would be no doubt. —Are you seeing this? My wife doesn’t want to marry me again!

The reporters tried to hide their laughter, some barely able to keep the cameras focused. You, in turn, had your hands on your face, laughing and in disbelief at the show your drunk husband was putting on. You bent down to him, trying to whisper:

—Jude, honey, everyone’s watching! Get up, go…

He ignored you completely, turning to the camera with a martyr’s expression.

—She doesn’t love me, guys. Here I am, winning La Liga, and my wife… rejects me.

He sighed theatrically as the camera focused on his face.

The crowd in the stands, who were already laughing and applauding the scene, began to scream, encouraging Jude. And he, of course, loved the encouragement, raising his fist in the air, as if he were ready to fight for that love right there.

You, still laughing, pulled him by the arm, finally managing to lift him up.

—Come on, you dramatic! Let's go home.

But he seemed unable to let the moment pass. Hugging you tightly, he lifted you in the air, spinning you around as he continued to speak towards the microphone he was still holding.

—I love this woman! She is everything to me. My wife... and the most beautiful of all!

The crowd applauded, and Jude, finally satisfied with the show he had put on, gave you a loud kiss on the cheek and finally handed the microphone back to the reporter, laughing at his own situation.

As they left the field, with his arms around her and his eyes shining, Jude whispered:

—But you’ll marry me again one day, right?

You rolled your eyes, laughing.

You sighed heavily, sinking on the sofa in the living room with an exhausted expression. The eighth month of pregnancy was being cruel - your back hurt all the time, the heat seemed unbearable and finding a comfortable sleeping position was practically impossible. To make matters worse, Jude was more overprotective than ever.

-Darling, do you need anything? His voice echoed from the kitchen, worried as always.

You closed your eyes for a moment, trying to convince yourself that answering "no" would be enough for him to stop treating you as if you were made of glass. But the truth was that you really needed something.

—Water, please.

You asked, defeated.

In less than a minute, Jude was already at the room with a glass in his hand.

-Here, babe.

He said, handing over the glass and sitting next to him on the couch.

You took a sip and sighed, feeling a little relief in your dry throat. Jude, on the other hand, didn't seem satisfied.

-Are you sure you're okay? Do you want me to do a massage? Or maybe a hot shower? Or...

-Jude. -You raised a hand, interrupting the flood of suggestions. -I'm pregnant, not sick.

He sighed, clearly trying to control himself.

-I know. But it's just that... I hate to see you uncomfortable and not being able to do anything.

You looked at him, your expression softening.

-You already do a lot, babe. You take care of me more than I could ask for.

He smiled small, but still looked restless. Then, without warning, he got up and took a cushion, fixing it behind your back.

-Better?

You laughed, shaking your head.

-Yes, better.

He didn't stop there. He took another cushion and put it on her lap, helping you to better accommodate your belly.

-And now?

You rolled your eyes, but the smile on your face gave that you were loving his care.

-Now it's perfect, Mr. Bellingham.

Jude settled on the couch, passing an arm around your shoulders and letting the other hand rest on your belly.

-You're already almost nine months... -He murmured, sliding his fingers lightly over the skin of your belly. -There's so little time for our baby to arrive.

You felt your heart tighten when you saw the sparkle in his eyes. Jude was so excited to be a father, so ready. He talked about the baby every day, touched your belly as if it were your greatest treasure and looked at you with a mixture of love and gratitude that made you feel like the most special person in the world.

-Are you ready to be a father?

You asked softly.

He looked at you, surprised by the question.

-I don't think I'll ever feel ready, you know? But I want to. I want more than anything else.

Your gaze softened, and you ran your fingers through his jaw, feeling the thin beard that began to grow there.

-You're going to be an amazing father, Jude.

He smiled, lightly squeezing you waist.

-And you're going to be the best mother in the world, darling.

You opened your mouth to answer, but a hook on your back made you shrink.

-Oh...

Jude was on alert at the same time.

-What was it, Y/n?! Are you feeling something?!

You let out a frustrated moan.

-My back. They're killing me.

He didn't waste time.

-Come here. Sit on your side.

—Jude...

-C'mon, babe, sit here!

He insisted softly, already getting ready on the couch so that you could settle down there.

You, knowing that arguing would be useless, straightened up on your side, feeling his warm and firm hand begin to massage your back firmly, but without hurting you.

-Better now?

He asked, while his fingers worked to relieve the tension.

You closed your eyes, relaxing against his touch.

-Very much.

Jude smiled satisfied, continuing the movements while watching his wife surrender to relief.

-Do you have any idea how much I love you?

He murmured against your ear.

You smiled, your eyes still closed.

-I Have. And I have no idea how much you spoil me.

He laughed, gently kissing the back of your neck.

-I'll always pamper you. You and our baby.