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The family box is meant to be strictly off‑limits. A special dispensation, pushed through by their agents and approved by both FAs with a grudging reluctance that suggested they’d rather be doing anything else. Five minutes. That’s all they get. Five minutes at halftime to see their children, to breathe, to remember why any of this even matters (five minutes, no more, Tuchel had made clear; Solbakken had simply raised a brow high enough to let Erling know not to push it).
When Jude shoves through the door, reeking of grass, heat, and game‑day sweat, Erling is right on his heels, flushed red from the humidity.
Jude’s mother has Sigrid nestled against her shoulder, asleep and oblivious to the noise outside—a tiny, warm bundle of dark curls and peaceful breathing. Sigurd, on the other hand, is wide awake. He wriggles in his seat, bright-eyed, his gaze darting around until it lands straight on Jude.
Erling’s sister smiles softly from her seat. “He’s been at it all half,” she says, fond as ever. “Every time your faces came up on the big screen, he pointed those little fingers straight at the monitor with the biggest gummy smile you’ve ever seen.”
Hearing her, Sigurd’s whole face lights up, splitting into a toothless grin that hits Jude right in the ribcage—makes his chest contract with a violent, terrifying love. He thought his heart was already full to bursting with Erling, until their kids. And now there’s even more to hold, more to fight for.
Jude doesn’t hesitate, reaching down to lift his son against his chest. Hello, my sweet boy, he thinks, squeezing his little boy close and covering his cheek in relentless, eager kisses, so completely obsessed with the warm, milky scent of him. Sigurd immediately buries his face into the crook of Jude’s neck, scenting him deeply.
Then his little mouth opens, drooling, as he nuzzles frantically at Jude’s sweat-soaked shirt, clearly searching for milk. He’s hungry. He’s always hungry. The twins have an appetite that seems almost impossible for their bodies, and Sigurd in particular has been a menace since birth, demanding milk at all hours like he’s personally offended by the concept of waiting.
“He’s been pointing at the screen every time you came on,” Denise echoes Gabrielle’s words with a warmth that sounds an awful lot like pride. “Every single time. Nearly gave himself a conniption when you scored.”
Jude laughs, soft and tired, his fingers stroking through Sigurd’s brunette curls. “Did he now?”
“Wouldn’t stop wriggling. Your father had to hold him still. Nearly dropped him twice.”
Jude looks at his dad, sitting in the corner, looking far too pleased with himself. The old man just shrugs, shameless.
“Little one’s got your spirit,” he says. “Won’t sit still for anything.”
Erling steps up beside him, a tiny electric fan whistling softly in one hand. He’s still flushed and reeking of halftime sweat, some of hair plastered flat against his brow, but he’s got that soft look in his eyes that only ever seems to appear when he’s looking at their children.
“Here,” he says, directing the fan at Jude’s face. “It’s hot in here.”
“It’s not that hot,” Jude protests, even as he leans into the cool air with a quiet sigh. “I’ve played in much worse, mate. This isn’t my first tournament, you know.”
“I know.” Erling’s hand finds the small of his back, supporting him. “But you’re carrying a seven‑month‑old who picked this week to start teething. I’m allowed to worry.”
Jude scoffs, nothing heated. He does feel the throbbing in his back, a lingering exhaustion that’s been shadowing him for weeks. Sigurd’s been teething for four days, and last night involved a lot of crying, pacing, and desperate soothing. Jude’s still running on adrenaline and pure stubbornness.
“He’s fine,” he insists, as if saying it will make it true. “He’s always fine. Look at him. Perfectly happy now that he’s got a tit in his mouth.”
Erling’s lips twitch into a faint, fond smile. “That’s not how I’d phrase it, but okay.”
Jude already has the baby latched on beneath his shirt, a manoeuvre he’s perfected over seven long months of practice. He’d barely had time to haul his jersey up and scrub the salt and pitch-sweat clean off his chest before offering his nipple to his child, but the relief on Sigurd’s tiny face is instant. His eyes flutter shut, his little body going soft and heavy against Jude’s chest.
The midfielder feels the tension drain right out of his shoulders as Erling unfolds a folding chair for him, then pulls up another to sit directly in front of him. Erling completely encases him in his frame, his strong fingers absently reaching out to trace the warm line of the mating mark high on Jude’s inner thigh.
A quiet, helpless shiver ripples through Jude at the contact. His hips twitch toward Erling’s hand, a soft noise catching in his throat as the bond sparks under his skin.
“God, don’t stop,” he whispers, leaning his head back against the wall with a long exhale, his eyes half-lidded as he drinks in the touch. “I swear my whole body’s been on fire since the twenty-minute mark. That feels too good.”
“Look at you,” Erling croons—his Norwegian accent softened by time, by proximity, by the years he’s spent folding himself into Jude’s life and making it his own. It makes Jude’s chest ache with something complicated, every single time. “Last-minute equaliser, and now you’ve got our son at your chest like it’s nothing. Like you didn’t just pull off a major comeback.”
Jude swallows. He doesn’t say anything, can’t really—not with Sigurd warm against his chest, not with his Pappa looking at Jude like he’s hung the moon. But he thinks it. He’s done the same thing, hasn’t he? Folded himself into Erling’s world piece by piece until he can’t tell where his own boundaries begin anymore. He knows Erling’s silences the way he knows his own breathing. Can read the set of his shoulders from across a room, know what he’s thinking before he’s even opened his mouth. He’s been doing it so long he’s forgotten there was ever a time he couldn’t.
“It was a good goal,” Jude says at last, his palm curved protectively around Sigurd’s skull. Erling’s hand joins his, broader and warmer, fingers curling around Jude’s knuckles like that’s the only place they belong.
“It was a brilliant goal.” Erling’s free thumb finds the mating bite again, stroking it like a prayer. “You were everywhere. Tracking back, pressing, creating chances. You’re making it look easy.”
Jude huffs a soft laugh. “Is this some kind of psychology stunt, then? Like Brazil? Trying to get me to drop my guard so you can wind me up?”
Erling’s face splits into a mischievous grin. “Would I do that?”
“You absolutely would.”
“No.” Erling leans forward, pressing a hand on Jude’s thigh. “Besides, you’re too smart to ever drop your guard against me on the pitch. You never have. That’s what makes playing against you so difficult.” His voice softens. “And so beautiful.”
Jude looks down at Sigurd, nearly asleep now, his tiny mouth still working against Jude’s chest, gums pulling softly at his nipple in that absent, dreamy way babies do when they’re drifting off. He’s so beautiful it makes Jude’s heart hurt. One grey eye, pale and clear like Erling’s, and one brown, warm and dark like his own. A shock of almost‑white curls tucked among the dark, plush ringlets on his head—a stripe of his Pappa in a sea of his daddy.
“Flatterer,” Jude returns, but it comes out thick.
Denise appears at his shoulder, checking her watch. “Four minutes gone. You’ve got one left.”
Jude’s hand moves before his brain catches up, snatching the small fan from Erling’s grip. He fans himself quickly, the cool air a brief reprieve from the heat of the box, then turns it on Erling for a second—just a teasing flick that makes Erling’s lips twitch.
Then he pulls Sigurd gently off his nipple, his baby fussing for a moment before Denise takes him, one hand cradling his head, the other supporting his bottom. Sigurd’s eyes close almost at once, his tiny body relaxing into the warmth of his grandmother.
God, he’s so bloody cute. It takes everything in Jude not to surrender to his feelings, not to press his nose back into Sigurd’s downy hair, not to pull Erling closer and drown in the smell of their little family until the world outside ceases to exist.
Instead, he swallows past the lump in his throat, reaching out to steal Erling’s hand and dragging him over to where his father is holding Sigrid. Jude presses a soft kiss to her forehead, breathing in the sweet baby smell he never gets tired of. Erling does the same, his lips brushing Sigrid’s dark curls, large hand lingering on her tiny back.
They step out into the hallway together, the door clicking shut behind them—sealing away the peaceful domesticity of the last five minutes like it was all just a dream.
Jude looks at Erling, a small smirk playing at his lips. “Ready to lose?”
Erling’s grin is competitive. “You wish.”
Just like that, it’s back to business.
The second half is brutal.
Jude’s legs are burning, his lungs are screaming, and every time he looks desperately up at the clock, time seems to have frozen. England are clinging to a fragile 2–1 lead, but only just. And Jude wants this. He wants it down to the marrow of his bones, wants to prove that he can do it all—be a father, a partner, a player—and still win.
The 105th minute arrives and Erling’s done. He has nothing left—every single drop of energy has been poured out and scattered across the grass.
He moves toward the touchline, dripping with sweat, his chest heaving under his kit, but he doesn’t pass Jude by. Would never.
Before Jude can process anything, Erling is there. Arms lock around him, pulling him into a crushing embrace, chest to chest, sweat-slick and burning. He feels the heat radiating off Erling’s skin, feels the frantic hammer of his heart slamming against his own ribs.
Jude melts into him, forehead dropping to Erling’s shoulder, eyes squeezed shut as if he can block out everything but the warmth of Erling’s body. The alpha’s jaw rests against his hair, one hand coming up to cup the back of Jude’s head like he’s trying to shield him from the world.
I love you so much it’s ridiculous, Jude thinks helplessly. Erling did this to him—he raised the bar so high that Jude doesn’t even remember what it feels like to expect less. Who else would drag themselves out of their own despair, their country’s hopes shattering around them, just to pull their partner close and make sure they were okay?
And Jude lets his cheek find his alpha’s chest, his whole body leaning into the weight of him—eyes closing, shoulders dropping, every part of him surrendering to the pull. He can’t help it. He never can. A soft, shuddering exhale leaves Jude, and his scent rushes out. Warm and thick and impossibly sweet.
I love you, I love you, I love you.
“You deserve it,” he hears his alpha whisper, pressing one final, firm squeeze to the back of Jude’s head. Then Erling is gone, stepping back into the endless pitch, walking toward the touchline.
Hours later, the stadium is empty.
The fans have finally gone home. Finally. A dim, tired gold spreads over the empty seats, and Jude lets himself breathe. Sometimes, he likes the stadium like this, when the only remaining sound is the muffled clatter of cleaners and technicians moving through the warren of corridors beneath the stands.
It’s 21:30.
Jude’s parents have taken the twins back to the hotel. He’d been the one to insist—Sigurd was rubbing his eyes into tiny fists, and Sigrid had gone quiet in a way that always means she’s running on empty. It was the right call. Even so, as he handed them over, Jude felt a small gap opening in his chest from the loss.
But Erling is still here—and so, Jude remained behind.
Erling, who stayed with the fans long after the whistle, pressing palms and signing shirts and offering smiles that didn’t reach his eyes—swallowing his own disappointment like a man handing out umbrellas in a rainstorm he had no control over.
By the time Jude makes his way back to the stands, the stadium is a ghost of itself. Erling’s in the front row, legs stretched out and his shoulders are a whole skyline. Broad enough to block out the floodlights if they were on, wide enough to carry the burdensome disappointment of an entire country and still stay standing. It’s almost unfair, the way they look in the empty stadium.
Jude pads down the steps in his slippers, and when he finally reaches Erling, he says nothing at all.
He only sits down beside his partner—in his head, his husband, a sacred word kept strictly for the space between breathless kisses and late-night whispers, never meant for press or post-match interviews. He sits close enough to feel the warmth coming off Erling’s skin. Close enough that their shoulders almost brush, like even the air between them is too much distance to bear.
And the silence isn’t uncomfortable. Honestly, with them, it never is. They’ve spent years learning to understand each other without speaking to the point where moments like this don’t feel awkward at all.
Sometimes, silence is just easier.
Erling’s eyes staring at the pitch, features unreadable. Jude doesn’t force it. He knows the words will come when Erling’s chest stops feeling so heavy. Besides, nobody’s chasing them off tonight. The whole empty stadium is just a wall around the two of them.
Then the Norwegian finally breaks his posture, a long sigh escaping him as he shifts. Jude doesn’t even need to turn his head to know Erling is looking at him.
“You stayed,” he says.
“Course I stayed,” Jude’s voice is broken, tired. “You stayed too, didn’t you? For the fans. Spent hours here. Just because they were gutted and you couldn’t let them leave like that.”
“They were hurting. The kids, especially. They’d travelled all this way—”
“I know.” Jude reaches out, his hand finding Erling’s knee. “I know you did. That’s what I’m saying. You always do this, putting everyone else first.”
Erling snorts a laugh, dry and humourless. “I don’t always. I’m selfish. I wanted to win so badly.”
“So did I,” Jude admits, his thumb rubbing into the fabric over Erling’s leg. “That’s not being selfish, mate. That’s just being human.”
Erling turns to look at him, and there’s something fragile in his expression, something that Jude hasn’t seen in a long time. Vulnerability, maybe. Or just exhaustion. Or both.
“Come here,” he says.
It’s a command, not a request, and still Jude doesn’t hesitate.
He moves, shifting up onto Erling’s lap, straddling him right there in the cramped plastic seat. On paper, it should be ridiculous—two massive athletes, all long legs and heavy limbs, trying to fold into a space built for average men. But the world has a funny way of stretching around them whenever they touch, making room where there shouldn’t be any. Jude slots into place against him like he was engineered for it, his arms wrapping over Erling’s shoulders, bringing their faces so close he can feel the erratic heat of Erling’s breath against his lips.
The striker’s hands find his waist, fingers digging through the fleece of his tracksuit to hold him close—like Jude is the only solid thing keeping him from falling through the floor.
“I just want to hold you,” Erling whispers, pressing the words directly against Jude’s jaw. “Is that okay?”
“Yeah.” Jude’s voice is barely a whisper. “It’s okay.”
His palm hooks under Erling’s jaw, coaxing his face up. His thumb works open the deep frown creased into his partner’s brow, smoothing the skin down along his cheekbone until it brushes the corner of his mouth. There’s no rush. He simply lets his hand linger against Erling’s skin, dragging him back into the present.
“You played your heart out tonight,” Jude says softly, his thumbs tracing Erling’s cheeks. “I know it’s hurting, baby. I know nothing I say is going to fix it right now. But you were class out there. Left every last bit of yourself on that pitch.”
“I should’ve done more,” Erling grunts. His voice is rough and thick with the cold. “I could’ve—”
“No.” Jude interjects firmly. “You couldn’t have done a single thing more. The team were just better tonight. That’s all it came down to. It’s not a reflection on you.”
Erling stops, a dark, disbelieving laugh cracking out of his chest as one blond eyebrow quirks up. “The team?” He stares at Jude like he’s lost his mind, the ghost of a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. “The team, or you?”
Before Jude can even open his mouth to dodge it, Erling’s grip on his waist tightens, pulling him closer.
“You were brilliant, Jude.”
Jude’s breath ghosts across Erling’s lips as he leans in, forehead to forehead. “And so were you,” he whispers, his thumb shifting to the warm skin of Erling’s nape. “I know you know it, too. But I’m going to tell you anyway, because you need to hear it.”
Erling goes quiet.
“You don’t always have to carry the whole fucking world,” Jude continues softly. “You don’t have to fix it for the fans, or the lads, or anyone else. If you’re broken, just be broken, mate. You’re allowed to be selfish. It’s okay to feel like shit without having to put on a show for everyone.”
Erling swallows hard, and his eyes are glossy enough that Jude thinks, for a second, he might actually break down. But then Erling laughs, rough and surprised.
“Jude Bellingham,” he says. “Always saying the right thing.”
“It’s my talent.”
Erling’s hand finds his jaw, thumb stroking across his cheek. He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes do. They always do.
Then Erling is kissing him, and it’s not gentle. It’s urgent, hungry, all tongue and teeth, and Jude makes a sound that’s half-moan, half-surrender. His shoulders drop, his body relaxing into the kiss, and his pheromones bloom between them—rich and potent, deepened by the milky sweetness that lingers on his skin. The scent of their children, of their life, of everything they’ve built together.
Erling groans deep in his chest, his head dropping into the crook of Jude’s neck as he inhales deeply, his whole body going rigid for a second before softening.
“God, Jude,” he whispers, breath hot and ragged against Jude’s pulse point. “You’re making my head spin... you smell completely fucking intoxicating. Makes me feel like I’m losing my mind.”
And Jude sees it—sees the exact moment Erling starts thinking it before he even gets the words out. He’s got some stupid joke brewing about Jude’s pheromones, some absurd, creative line he thinks is brilliant. It’s right there in the way his lips twitch, the tiny spark of a smirk forming at the corner of his mouth. Something infuriating and entirely too on-brand for the man who’s been making him laugh for years.
Jude isn’t about to allow him to say it.
“Shut it,” he cuts in, his palm firm against Erling’s chest to stop the joke in its tracks. “You’re not writing this off as some textbook biology nonsense. I outplayed you fair and square, Haaland.”
“What about trying to pinch my ass?” Erling raises an eyebrow like he’s been meticulously gathering evidence all match. “Or you following me around everywhere on the pitch?”
“Oh, so that’s how you want to play it?” Jude scoffs, a wide grin breaking across his face. “Who came up to hug me at the touchline then?”
“I was congratulating you,” Erling grunts, but his smirk is completely now.
The laugh that escapes Jude is breathless, swallowed completely by the sound-hungry stands around them. His fingers curl against the back of Erling’s neck.
“Right. Congratulating me,” Jude murmurs, as his thumb idly traces the line of Erling’s ear. “Sigrid cried, you know?”
Erling’s smirk fades, his grey eyes going gentle. “Sigrid?”
“When she saw you on the big screen after the whistle. The second you dropped your head, her whole face completely crumpled. Started sobbing right into my mum’s shoulder.”
Erling laughs, but it cracks in the middle. “Yeah? Good thing to cry sometimes, isn’t it? Cleans out the head.”
Jude’s lips twitch, a soft, wry smile tugging at his mouth. “Maybe for normal people, mate. You don’t do it much. Guess she gets the dramatic streak from her Pappa.”
“I’m not dramatic,” Erling mutters, without conviction. He drags Jude closer, rests his forehead against his chest, and breathes him in. “How are they really doing?”
“They’re asleep. Your mum brought rømmegrøt. Sigurd practically inhaled it, and Sigrid didn’t even finish her bowl before she was out cold.”
Erling lets out a low sound of contentment. He tilts his head up, looking at Jude with an indecipherable expression, something caught between wonder and silence.
“When did you get so grown up?” he says, a rough awe in his voice. “Always knowing what to say. Handing out advice like you’ve already got life figured.”
Jude huffs a laugh. “Parenthood didn’t give me much choice, did it? Hard to act like a kid when you’ve got two of your own screaming for milk at three in the morning. Lucky our mums are around to keep us from making a mess of it.”
Erling seems to think about it, then nods slowly.
“I was proud to play against you today,” Erling says, lighter now, the crushing weight of defeat is finally starting to lift. “I hate losing. You know that—God, I bloody hate it. But if I must, it’s better to lose to you. Now I get to sit back and watch you win this thing.”
Jude smiles, his heart is swelling in his chest. “Yeah?”
“Hell yeah.”
Jude nods, something soft and entirely overwhelming curling around his chest. “Alright then…”
Another kiss, slower this time—tender and unhurried. Jude lingers, his lips brushing against Erling’s, breathing him in like the night air might steal him away if he lets go.
“I love you,” Jude whispers against his mouth. “Shall we head back?”
Erling closes his eyes, wrapping his arms just a little tighter around Jude’s waist, burying his face into the crook of Jude’s neck for one last, deep breath.
“Just a second longer,” he mutters, voice muffled against Jude’s skin. “Just give me one more minute.”
Jude doesn’t argue, just strokes Erling’s blond hair, until the Norwegian finally exhales, nodding against his shoulder.
Minutes later, he shifts slightly, reaching into his trackpant pocket and tapping his phone screen to light it up.
22:48.
His lockscreen shows two naughty, beautiful faces—Sigurd and Sigrid captured mid-giggle, a messy mop of Jude’s dark ringlets topped with their signature streak of silver-blond right at the front, their wide, mismatched grey and brown eyes staring straight back.
Jude snorts softly, showing the screen to Erling. “Right. We really need to go back to the hotel before my mum actually lives up to her promise of kidnapping our kids.”
Erling lets out a genuine, rumbling laugh, finally easing his grip so Jude can slide off his lap and stand on the cold concrete.
He stands, and his hand finds Jude’s immediately—like he can’t bear to walk without holding onto some part of him. Their fingers lace together as they begin the slow walk out of the empty stadium.
Jude sees it the second they pass into the tunnel—an infuriating quirk of Erling’s lips. The look in his eyes that means he’s been marinating on some stupid joke again, waiting for the perfect second to drop it.
Jude’s already opening his mouth to tell him to shut up, but Erling leans in, hand tightening around his, breath warm against Jude’s ear.
“Just so we’re clear, I’m taking this loss out on your ass the second we get to the hotel.”
Laughter leaves Jude, surprised and bright, and he shoves at Erling’s shoulder with his free hand. “Fucking pervert!”
Erling just grins, completely unbothered, his grip tightening as he hauls Jude right back into his side. He dips his head to press a warm, lingering kiss against Jude’s temple, inhaling deeply like he could never grow tired of the way Jude smells.
“Come on,” he murmurs against his hair, keeping his thick fingers locked tight with Jude’s as they head into the dark. “Let’s go home.