Archive of Our Own

“So, I’m going to need you to be my boyfriend for three months.”

“Done.”

“It’s going to help me—wait, what?”

Jude stopped dead in the center of the massive, custom-built Manchester living room. The soft, rhythmic shff-shff of his stolen, plush white Ritz-Carlton hotel slippers dragging against the dark hardwood floor came to an abrupt halt.

He had been pacing a frantic, jagged circle for the better part of twenty minutes, completely manic. It had been exactly five days since the incident in Spain—the blinding flash of red mist, the sickening, heavy crack of his knuckles connecting with a La Liga defender’s jaw in the tunnel, and the absolute media bloodbath that followed. The Spanish press was calling for his head. Real Madrid’s comms department was in a full-scale meltdown. And, worst of all, the Euro League disciplinary committee was hovering, threatening a suspension that could ruin his summer.

His team had immediately shoved him onto a private jet back to England, effectively putting him in an adult timeout to keep him away from microphones while they scrambled for a distraction big enough to bury a violent conduct charge.

Hence, the fake dating manifesto.

As the mature ‘twenty-eight’ year old he was (only twenty-three, mate, just gone and added five years to it?), Jude Bellingham blinked slowly, staring across the room in absolute stupor.

Across the rug sat Erling Haaland—a twenty-six-year-old hulking Norwegian whom the tabloids regularly described as either a bio-engineered scoring machine or a Viking displaced in time, also known as Jude’s best friend.

Right now, the "machine" was slouched so low on his deep velvet sectional that his massive frame looked less like an elite athlete and more like a discarded pile of expensive beige fleece, taking up a ridiculous amount of space. And he wasn't even looking at Jude. His pale, striking eyes were fixed lazily on a muted FIFA replay on the television, a glass of some murky, kale-green recovery smoothie balanced casually on his massive chest.

“Why?” Jude demanded, his voice pitching up a frantic octave, his hands dropping from where they had been wildly gesturing in the air. “I haven't even explained the PR strategy yet, Erling. We have rules. Protocols. I have a twelve-page PDF my agent just sent me about media boundaries and staged public outings. You don't even know what you just agreed to.”

The older athlete finally blinked, rolling his broad head slowly against the cushions to look at him. He took a slow, unbothered sip of his terrible green drink.

“You are vibrating like a washing machine, Jude,” the Norwegian rumbled, his voice dropping into that quiet, heavy register that seemed to vibrate right through the floorboards. “You are pacing a hole into my wood. And you get very whiny when the press is mean to you. It is easier to just say yes.”

Jude just stared at him, completely unmoored. He was a tightly coiled spring of pure, unfiltered panic, and the giant sitting on the sofa was a brick wall, entirely unaffected by the prospect of staging a high-profile, scandal-burying romance in front of the entire global media. Erling didn't even look remotely stressed. He just looked like he wanted Jude to sit down and stop blocking the television.

A massive, suffocating wave of relief suddenly broke over the younger midfielder, bleeding the rigid tension straight out of his spine.

“Thank you so much, mate,” Jude breathed, the frantic edge finally dropping from his voice. “Seriously. I owe you one!”

He crossed the expensive Persian rug in three long strides, leaning down to wrap his arms around Erling’s impossibly broad shoulders in a crushing, fleeting hug. It was like hugging a marble statue wrapped in a hoodie. The older man smelled overwhelmingly of that deep, familiar sandalwood soap and warm cotton, a heavy, solid heat that instantly anchored Jude’s racing pulse.

Before the striker could even lift his heavy arms to return the embrace, Jude was already pulling back, his brain firing on all cylinders again.

He kicked off the white terrycloth hotel slippers, leaving them discarded haphazardly near the edge of the coffee table, and shoved his bare feet blindly into his trainers by the front door.

“I'll be back!” Jude shouted, already yanking the heavy mahogany front door open, his thumb furiously scrolling through his contacts to find his frantic publicist. “I have to tell the team we're on!”

The heavy door slammed shut behind him with a solid, echoing thud.

Silence rushed back into the sprawling Manchester house, broken only by the low hum of the television.

Erling didn't move for a long moment. Then, very slowly, he sat up. He set his green smoothie down on the glass table and looked at the empty space by the door. His pale blue eyes drifted down to the floor, landing entirely on the plush, abandoned hotel slippers resting on his rug.

A slow, terribly quiet smirk tugged at the corner of the striker's mouth. He leaned forward, scooped the slippers up in one massive hand, and set them neatly next to his own slides by the sofa.

The heavy silence in the foyer settled into the high ceilings, lingering long after the low, controlled purr of Jude’s blacked-out chauffeured van faded down the gated driveway.

The blond didn't immediately go back to his match highlights. Instead, the blond giant remained sitting on the edge of the dark velvet sectional, his broad shoulders slouched forward, his massive hands resting loosely on his knees. His gaze stayed fixed on the two plush white slippers sitting side by side on his rug. The gold-threaded logo of it caught the soft afternoon light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling glass walls.

It was ridiculous, really. Jude was Real Madrid’s golden boy, living in a sprawling La Finca estate equipped with custom walk-in closets and pristine marble floors. Yet, he couldn't stop stealing thirty-cent terrycloth slides from high-end hotel rooms—and he certainly couldn't stop abandoning them across Erling's floor plan.

Erling let out a low, raspy exhale, the sound vibrating deep in his chest. He reached out, picking up one of the lightweight slippers between two thick fingers, weighing it casually. It was soft, lumpy, and carried the faint, unmistakable trace of Jude’s citrus cologne.

Boyfriend.

The word hung in the quiet air of the empty estate, heavy and electric. Jude had tossed it out like a throwaway tactic, a frantic PR maneuver cooked up in a panic to keep his Euro League dreams alive. He had treated it like a logistical problem to be solved—a three-month contract with rules, boundaries, and scheduled media appearances.

Erling’s pale blue eyes darkened, a quiet, unshakeable warmth settling deep behind his irises.

Jude genuinely believed they were about to pull off the performance of their lives. His hyper-analytical, intensely guarded brain had framed the entire endeavor as a tactical operation. He was probably in the backseat of his car right now, speaking rapidly into his hands-free system while his driver navigated toward the airport, listing off "fake dating" guidelines to a hyperventilating publicist who was just glad Real Madrid wouldn't be dropped by their primary shirt sponsors.

What the younger player failed to realize—or perhaps was too terrified to admit—was that there was nothing for Erling to fake.

The Norwegian stood up, the floorboards groaning slightly beneath his massive frame. He carried the stolen slippers over to the front entrance, placing them neatly in the low wooden shoe rack right beside his own oversized slides. They looked completely at home there. Natural, like they belonged.

When his phone buzzed in his pocket twenty minutes later, Erling didn't even need to look at the screen to know who it was.

He slid his thumb across the display, bringing the device up to his ear as he walked into the kitchen to grab a fresh bottle of water.

"My agent is losing her mind," Jude’s voice immediately blasted through the speaker, breathless and sharp, cutting right through the quiet hum of the refrigerator. "She thought I was joking. I had to put her on speaker with the Madrid comms director just to prove I wasn't having a mental breakdown."

Erling unscrewed the cap with one hand, taking a long, unhurried swig. "And?"

"And they're doing it!" Jude was clearly pacing the narrow aisle of his private terminal, the rustle of synthetic fabric sounding over the line. "They're reaching out to your team now. They want to draft a joint statement for Friday morning. Just a soft hint first—a quiet leak to a trusted journalist—and then we do a joint sponsor event in London next week. Erling, this is actually going to work. We’re going to completely bury the tunnel incident!"

"Good," the striker rumbled softly, leaning his heavy lower back against the dark granite island.

"Are you even listening to me?" Jude snapped, though the frantic, defensive edge in his tone was laced with that familiar, desperate need for reassurance. "We need to set boundaries, Erling. I’m making a list. When we're in public, we can't look too eager, or people will know it's a setup. But we can't look cold, either. We have to make it look like we've been hiding it for months."

Erling’s lips twitched into a sharp, crooked smirk. He pushed off the island, walking back toward the living room with heavy, silent strides.

"Hiding it," the Norwegian repeated, his voice dropping an octave, turning the words over on his tongue.

"Yes! Hiding it!" Jude huffed into the mic. "Like... like something that's been building since Dortmund, but we only just acted on it. That’s the narrative the PR team wants to pitch. It makes it believable."

Erling stopped by the front door, looking down at the pair of Ritz-Carlton slippers resting next to his shoes.

"Okay, Jude," the giant murmured softly, his low rumble carrying an unyielding, quiet weight straight through the speaker and into Jude’s ear. "Whatever you want."

On the other end of the line, Jude’s rapid-fire rambling suddenly stuttered. There was a beat of heavy, charged silence—the sound of the younger man’s breath hitching subtly over the cellular connection as the low frequency of Erling's voice landed right in his chest.

"Right," Jude muttered, his tone dropping into a quieter, far more guarded register. "Right. Just... keep your phone on. My driver's dropping me at the tarmac now. I'll be back at La Finca tonight to clear out some stuff before the London trip."

"Don't forget your slippers," Erling deadpanned, his pale eyes gleaming in the quiet hall.

"I have plenty of slippers, Erling!" Jude barked back, immediately retreating behind his usual defensive wall, though his tone carried zero real bite. "Keep them. Consider it your payment for the contract."

The striker hummed into the mic as the line went dead.

Erling lowered the phone, the screen fading to black. He looked back down at the neat row of shoes by the door, a low, raspy chuckle vibrating in his chest. Jude thought he was orchestrating a masterclass in media manipulation. He thought he was pulling the strings.

He had no idea he was stepping directly into a trap he had spent four years laying for himself.

After the paperwork cleared and the joint statement was locked in, the remainder of the afternoon was spent in a state of high-alert strategy, pacing the narrow aisle of a private terminal and calling Birmingham.

"Mum, I’m flying home tonight," Jude said into his phone, the familiar hum of jet engines rising in the background. "I’ve got... big news to tell you and Dad."

"Oh, lovely," Denise’s warm voice carried clearly through the speaker. "I'll get the house sorted. Do you want me to make that shepherd's pie you like?"

A nervous thumb dragged a rapid pattern against his denim jeans. "Aha... can Erling come too, Mum?"

"Oh, of course he can, dear. He's welcome anytime," Denise replied without a second of hesitation. "I'll go get started on the roast chicken instead. Make sure he eats properly when you pick him up."

An hour later, the blacked-out van pulled up to the private arrivals curve at the airport. Instead of staying behind the heavily tinted glass like his security team usually advised, the midfielder pushed the heavy door open and stepped out into the damp cool air, waiting right by the terminal exit.

When the towering frame of the blond Norwegian finally emerged through the double glass doors—carrying a single duffel bag slung casually over one broad shoulder—an absurd, ridiculous grin broke across Jude's face. It had only been three days since running out of that Manchester living room in a whirlwind of panic, but seeing the striker now, completely unbothered by the quiet drizzle, sent a sudden, overwhelming wave of relief straight through his chest.

"You came," Jude said, stepping forward to close the distance between them.

The striker stopped, looking down at him with an eyebrow raised, pale blue eyes gleaming with quiet amusement. "Of course I came. You called."

"Right. Yeah," Jude laughed softly, taking the heavy bag before the giant could even object, tossing it into the back of the vehicle. He practically beamed. The PR machine was rolling, the media was pivoting, and Erling was actually here, going along with the entire insane scheme without asking a single difficult question.

Studying Jude's face as they climbed into the dark leather interior, the older athlete tilted his head. "Why are you looking at me like that? Why are you so happy, Jude?"

The heavy door pulled shut, sinking into the plush seat right next to him. "Don’t know, mate. Just happy to see you."

A faint, crooked smile tugged at the corner of Erling's mouth, but he didn't press it.

As the chauffeur pulled out of the terminal and engaged the heavy, soundproof glass partition between the front cab and the back seats, Jude immediately leaned forward, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

"Okay. Private room, no cameras," he began, hands already starting to gesture wildly in the air. "We need to practice the affection moves. The media isn't going to buy a joint sponsor appearance next week if we look like we're standing at a wall during a free kick."

Resting a broad head against the leather headrest, the giant watched him with lazy contentment. "Practice.. how?"

"Like... contact!" Jude urged, grabbing a massive wrist and draping the striker's heavy arm over his own shoulders. "Like this. If a photographer catches us outside a restaurant, you have to look natural holding me close. Don't pull away."

Pull away? Not a chance. Instead, the Norwegian simply adjusted his weight, a thick arm sliding down to wrap firmly around Jude's waist, pulling the younger man an inch closer until the heavy heat of Erling's chest pressed right against Jude's side. His large hand settled comfortably on Jude's hip, fingers resting with an unshakeable, possessive weight.

The rapid-fire instructions instantly stuttered. Jude's breath caught in his throat for half a second at the sudden, solid proximity, a flush creeping up his neck under the dim interior lighting.

"Yeah," Jude cleared his throat, staring straight ahead at the black privacy screen while his heart thumped a little too fast against his ribs. "Yeah, like... like that. Good grip. Very believable."

That thick arm didn't move for the entire forty-minute drive to Birmingham.

Gravel crunched beneath the tires as the van finally pulled into the driveway, and Jude felt his stomach tie itself into a fresh knot of pure anxiety. Stepping out onto the drive, his brain ran in hyper-drive, trying to figure out how to carefully break the news of a high-profile PR contract to his parents without sounding completely unhinged.

The tall striker, however, walked right past him.

The front door opened as if he owned the place. Before Jude even made it onto the porch, Erling was already greeted by Denise, who immediately wrapped him in a warm, motherly hug, followed by a solid pat on the back from Mark.

"Evening, Haaland," Jobe called out from the stairs with a lazy grin, casually trading a low palm-slap and a quick shoulder-bump with the striker.

"Bellingham," Erling rumbled right back, deadpan, as if Jude wasn't standing two feet away literally carrying that exact surname on his jersey.

Without a word of direction, the Norwegian ducked his head under the low doorway and trudged straight up the stairs, carrying his duffel bag into Jude’s childhood bedroom to drop it on the floor next to the twin bed—exactly where he had slept every time he’d come over for the past four years.

Lingering on the porch, Jude hovered a hand over his mouth, mentally rehearsing his grand speech.

"Come on in, love! Dinner's already set up!" Denise called out from the hallway, oblivious to her eldest son's internal crisis.

A few minutes later, all five of them were gathered around the dining table. The middle was stacked high with roasted chicken, bowls of golden potatoes, and steaming vegetables. Erling sat right beside Jude, his massive plate already loaded with double portions of meat, chewing methodically and looking like the happiest person in England.

The eldest Bellingham sat up straight, clearing his throat loudly. He knocked his knuckles against the table to draw everyone’s attention.

"Right," he announced, voice tight with importance. "I have a major announcement to make."

Mark and Denise paused, cutlery hovering as they looked over with mild curiosity. Across the table, Jobe leaned back in his chair, taking a slow sip of water. Beside him, Erling didn't even pause, casually spearing another potato and shoveling it into his mouth.

Taking a deep, dramatic breath, Jude braced himself to explain the complex PR maneuver. "I'm dating Erling—"

"Oh, that’s wonderful!" Denise gasped instantly, her face lighting up with a radiant, delighted beam. She set her fork down and clapped her hands together. "Oh, I am so, so happy for you both!"

Jude blinked, eyes widening. "Wait—Mum, I’m not finished! We're just—"

"Oh, it doesn't matter, sweetie, I am just thrilled!" she interrupted smoothly, glowing across the table at the giant striker, who was currently swallowing his food with a broad, contented expression. "Welcome to the family, Erling!"

"Thank you, Denise," the Norwegian rumbled happily, accepting another massive ladle of gravy from Mark, who was nodding in quiet, stoic approval. "The chicken is very good."

Jude sat frozen, his jaw slightly lower than it should have been. He looked down at his plate, then back at his mother, completely derailed. He hadn't even reached the part about the three-month timeline or the joint statement protocols, and the entire room had already moved on to passing the bread rolls.

From across the table, Jobe leaned over his plate and squinted at his brother's pained expression.

"Why are you sitting there like a squirming worm?" Jobe whispered quietly, a teasing grin tugging at his lips.

"Why do they keep interrupting me?" Jude hissed back under his breath, eyes wide with frantic frustration. "I didn't get to explain anything!"

Taking a slow bite of his food, Jobe shook his head with zero sympathy. "Doesn't matter, mate. They love Erling anyway, despite whatever grand nonsense you were about to say. It would probably kill them if you told them it was going to end."

Jude opened his mouth to argue, but stopped dead. He glanced at his mum, who was currently piling extra chicken onto Erling’s plate while his dad laughed at something the striker murmured, the entire dining room glowing with a cozy, comfortable warmth that felt impossible to disrupt.

Swallowing hard, Jude slowly lowered his head. He snapped his mouth shut, picking up his fork in total, defeated silence, utterly trapped inside his own success.

The joint press release didn't drop in a vacuum—it hit at precisely six in the morning on Friday, timed to catch the dawn news cycle in Madrid and London simultaneously.

By eight, the internet had practically snapped in half. Real Madrid’s comms department was quietly celebrating the complete eradication of the tunnel punch from every major front page, while the European press scrambled to print extra editions. The media wasn't just covering the story; they were obsessing over it.

Everyone and their mothers wanted a piece of this story.

Jude, meanwhile, was sitting in the back of his blacked-out van on the M40, wearing a sharp, tailored jacket and looking like the picture of absolute, unbothered composure.

Externally, he was Real Madrid’s golden boy: spine straight, jaw set, chin held at that perfect, media-trained angle that screamed total control. Internally, however, his brain was a roaring engine of pure, unadulterated excitement. He was doing it. The masterstroke was working. The three-month contract was locked, loaded, and executed with military precision.

He glanced sideways at the blond giant beside him, leaning over to whisper into the space between them, his voice buzzing with that familiar, manic energy.

"Did you see the numbers?" Jude murmured, his eyes glowing as he tapped his phone screen, showing Erling the social media metrics. "Marca hasn't mentioned the disciplinary committee once in three hours. Not once, mate. We’re literally rewriting the news cycle."

Resting a broad head against the leather headrest, the Norwegian took a slow, unhurried swig from his water bottle. "Mmm. Very clever, Jude."

"I told you!" Jude grinned, a rapid, triumphant flash of teeth before he instantly straightened back up, smoothing down his lapels as the van slowed into the dense, gridlocked traffic of Central London.

Because Birmingham was nearly three hours behind them now, and the London pavement was waiting.

When the vehicle finally pulled up to the private rear entrance of the shared-sponsor venue, the roar through the tinted glass was deafening. Flashing lights bounced off the wet asphalt, a sea of lenses, microphones, and screaming fans pressed hard against the metal barriers.

Jude took a single, stabilizing breath. He dialed his internal frequency straight back to Cool, Collected Global Icon. He stepped out into the damp city air, perfectly composed, waiting half a beat for the taller man to follow.

This was Step 1: The Subtle Physical Touch. Controlled. Professional. Believable.

Except the striker didn't do subtle.

Stepping off the van’s running board, Erling moved directly into Jude's space. Without missing a single beat, a broad, warm hand slid down, lacing thick fingers securely through Jude's. His grip was firm, unyielding, and completely solid—anchoring the younger man directly to his side as he pulled him toward the entry carpet.

Internally, Jude’s mind shrieked. Too long! That’s too tight! The Twelve-Page PDF said brief contact!

But externally? Jude didn't flinch. Not for a second.

He kept his chin up, his expression impeccably calm, stepping smoothly alongside the giant as if this was a routine Tuesday. He shot the wall of screaming photographers a cool, enigmatic half-smile, allowing the heavy weight of Erling’s hand to steer them through the chaos. When Erling leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of Jude’s ear to rumble, "You're walking too fast," Jude merely tilted his head, giving a smooth, microscopic nod that looked, to every camera lens in Europe, like an intimate, shared secret between partners.

The shutter clicks exploded like gunfire against glass.

Safely behind the heavy double doors of the green room, the mask dropped the second the lock clicked shut.

Jude spun around, throwing his hands up in a frantic, energetic gesture, his voice pitching up an octave as he paced the plush carpet. "Erling! What was that? You held my hand all the way past security! The contract said subtle!"

The giant sat casually on the arm of the leather sofa. "Your hand was cold."

"It wasn't cold, it was strategic!" Jude barked, though there was zero real heat behind it—just that restless, hyperactive momentum he always carried when a plan was in motion. He pulled out his phone, his thumb flying across the glass to check the first wave of media reactions. "We need to make sure the narrative stays on target. If they think we're trying too hard—"

He stopped mid-sentence.

The internet hadn't just reported on the London appearance; they were treating it with a bizarre, almost collective shrug of absolute familiarity.

@madridxtra: Jude Bellingham and Erling Haaland arrive hand-in-hand for a sponsor gala in London following Friday’s statement.

@football_forum: Why is everyone acting like this is news? These two have been practically attached at the hip for four years.

@city_zone: Honestly, congrats to them on making it official, but we’ve been watching this unfold since Dortmund.

Jude stared down at his screen, his eyebrows drawing together in a tight, bewildered knot.

There were no shocking headlines. No scandalized op-eds. Just thousands of comments from fans and journalists alike nodding along, threatening the "groundbreaking PR maneuver" like an eventuality everyone had already agreed on years ago.

"Look at this," Jude muttered, turning the screen toward the sofa, his frantic energy temporarily dimming into genuine, confused disbelief. "They’re not even surprised, Erling. We dropped a massive, life-altering PR announcement, and they’re just... agreeing with it."

The Norwegian didn't even look up from his magazine, a low, quiet hum vibrating in his broad chest as he turned a page. "Maybe your PR plan was very convincing, Jude."

"No, but—" Jude huffed, staring at the screen, his chest tightening with a strange, unnameable friction he couldn't quite analyze. "We just started!"

Erling finally lowered the magazine, his pale blue eyes fixing on Jude with that heavy, unshakeable warmth—calm, patient, and completely content to let the younger midfielder run his lap around a track that was already closed.

"Don't worry so much," the striker murmured softly, his voice dropping into that heavy, grounding register. "We still have three months."

The weeks following the London launch didn't pass in a grand, dramatic burst of press management, but in a strange, frictionless blur that Jude found increasingly difficult to quantify.

By the fourth week, the joint brand appearances had evolved into something terrifyingly seamless. Gone were the pre-car pep talks, the frantic boundary rehearsals in private terminals, and the rigid Twelve-Page PDF rules. Erling moved into Jude's personal space with the quiet, gravitational certainty of a planet locking into orbit. At a crowded charity gala in Madrid, a heavy, warm hand rested casually on the small of Jude’s back, guiding him through a wall of flashing cameras with effortless ease. On a long-haul flight to Zurich for a commercial shoot, the Norwegian casually fell asleep with his massive shoulder pressed firmly against Jude's, his deadweight warmth anchoring the younger midfielder in place.

The press had completely stopped treating them like breaking news. The story had settled into the cultural bedrock—as permanent, unquestioned, and obvious as ninety minutes on a pitch.

Week six saw them seated at a candlelit table in Paris for an high-end endorsement dinner. Externally, Jude was the picture of elite media training. Spine locked straight, tailored jacket immaculate, his smile flash-frozen for the long-lenses stationed around the perimeter of the venue. Internally, his brain was running at a hundred miles an hour, analyzing the engagement metrics and counting down the remaining days on their joint agreement.

Under the table, however, shielded from every lens in the room, reality told a completely different story.

Erling’s large, calloused hand sat heavily on Jude’s left knee. His thumb moved in slow, rhythmic circles through the dark fabric of Jude's trousers, a steady, rhythmic pulse that kept Jude from vibrating out of his skin. When Jude leaned sideways to whisper a sharp, witty observation into the giant’s ear, Erling didn't just listen—he tilted his head, a low, genuine rumble of laughter escaping his chest, catching the light in a way that had three separate photographers scrambling to adjust their focal lengths.

By week nine, the lines between their staged reality and actual daily life had blurred beyond recognition. Erling’s habits had bled entirely into Jude’s Madrid estate without either of them officially discussing it.

Stepping out of the shower at seven in the morning, Jude would find the oversized grey tracksuits he’d bought Erling three years ago permanently folded over the armchair in his bedroom. Downstairs, the physical therapy room was half-cluttered with hyper-specific recovery gear that definitely hadn't arrived in a Real Madrid equipment bag.

Crossing the cool tiles of the kitchen on a Tuesday morning, Jude caught the sound of a blender humming away at full power. There stood the giant striker in a sleeveless tee, methodically pouring a terrifying concoction of raw milk, berries, and raw eggs into two giant glass tumblers. Without even turning around, Erling slid the second glass across the marble island right into Jude’s waiting hand.

Jude blinked down at the glass, then up at the blond giant. "I didn't ask for this."

"You need protein," Erling rumbled simply, taking a massive gulp from his own glass before leaning back against the counter, perfectly at home in a kitchen six hundred miles away from Manchester.

Jude opened his mouth to argue the logistics, but the heavy, comfortable silence of the room wrapped around him before he could form a single sentence. He just took a sip, grimaced at the taste, and drank the rest anyway.

Week eleven brought the official wind-down of the public campaign. Their joint media obligations were officially fulfilled, the tunnel-punch scandal had been thoroughly buried beneath three months of romantic internet hysteria, and the football world had fully accepted their relationship as a solid, undeniable reality.

A cool night air drifted through the tunnel of the Bernabéu after a late-season victory. Leaning his head back against the cold concrete wall, Jude tapped his thumb against his phone screen, reading through the final PR performance report sent by his frantic agent.

Media Engagement: Historical Highs.

Brand Sentiment: Overwhelmingly Positive.

Disciplinary Coverage: Completely Neutralized.

A triumphant, energetic spark flared back to life in Jude's chest. He stared at the glowing numbers, a manic grin spreading across his face. It was done. The three-month contract was officially drawing to a close. They had pulled off the single greatest media diversion in modern football history, kept the press entirely at bay, and executed every single clause with absolute, ruthless efficiency.

Heavy, echoing footsteps sounded down the corridor as Erling emerged from the Manchester City dressing room, smelling faintly of soap and damp turf, his damp blond hair slicked back.

Jude straightened up instantly, slapping the giant hard on his broad shoulder, his voice buzzing with that familiar, hyperactive excitement.

"We did it, mate!" Jude beamed, pushing off the wall to walk alongside him toward the double doors. "Contract's officially wrapped up. Three months, zero slip-ups, total control. Absolute tactical masterclass from start to finish."

Erling stopped dead in the middle of the quiet, dimly lit corridor.

He didn't celebrate. He didn't laugh. He simply turned his broad frame around, looking down at the younger midfielder with an unreadable, quiet intensity. His pale blue eyes traced the bright, manic pride glowing in Jude's face, completely silent.

Jude’s triumphant smile faltered just a fraction. He shifted his weight, his energetic momentum running headfirst into the wall of Erling's absolute stillness.

"Why’re you not saying anything?" Jude asked, his brow furrowing as he let out a nervous, breathless chuckle. "Job’s over, mate! You’re free! You don't have to pretend anymore."

The silence hung between them in the narrow hallway, long and heavy.

"Right," Erling rumbled softly, his voice dropping into a flat, quiet register that lacked every trace of its usual warmth. He gave Jude one last, long look—a look so sharp and hurt it felt like a door softly clicking shut. "Okay. No more pretending."

The tall Norwegian turned on his heel and pushed through the double doors, stepping out into the cool night air toward the bus.

"See you around, Bellingham."

It started with the text messages. Where Erling used to reply within minutes—usually with a string of bizarre, unprompted emojis or a random voice note complaining about his green juices—there was now a gaping expanse of grey timestamps. Hours bled into half-days. Three-word replies replaced the endless back-and-forth banter.

Then came the video calls. Jude would hit the camera icon on FaceTime after a late-night recovery session in Madrid, fully expecting Erling’s massive face to fill the screen from his Manchester sofa. Instead, the phone would ring until it hit voicemail. An hour later, a brief text would pop up: Was in the ice bath. Going to sleep.

It drove Jude absolutely insane.

His ego couldn't parse it. The contract was finished, sure, but they were best friends. They had been inseparable for four years. Jude spent his days pacing his living room, staring down at his phone, his thumb hovering over Erling's contact card while his mind spun in hyper-reactive circles. Why is he acting like this? Did he get injured? Is he annoyed about his goal dry spell? Is he just being a moody bastard?

The dam finally broke at one in the morning on a Thursday.

Jude couldn't sleep. He sat on the edge of his bed in La Finca, his chest tight with a hot, prickly agitation that he refused to name. Grabbing his phone, he dialed Erling’s number, convinced it would go straight to voicemail like the last four times.

It rang once. Twice.

The line clicked open.

"Jude," Erling’s voice came through the speaker, low, raspy, and heavy with sleep.

The Brit didn't even give him a chance to say hello. He pushed off the bed, pacing a sharp, jagged line across his bedroom floor, his voice rising in an instant wave of defensive, frantic frustration.

"Why didn't you pick up earlier?" Jude demanded, his tone laced with sharp, wounded bite. "I called you at eight. I texted you twice yesterday. You've been leaving me on read for three days, Erling!"

Silence stretched over the line, long and heavy, broken only by the faint rustle of bedsheets in Manchester.

"I was busy," Erling rumbled flatly.

"Busy?" Jude scoffed, his hands gesturing wildly in the empty room. "You weren't too busy last month! We were talking every single night! Now suddenly the PR campaign is over and you can't even take two minutes to reply to a text? What is your problem?"

"I don't have a problem, Jude," the Norwegian said, his voice terrifyingly calm, devoid of every trace of warmth. "The contract is over. You said it yourself in the tunnel. Job's over. I don't have to pretend."

"I was talking about the media, you idiot!" Jude barked back, his chest heaving as his ego flared into full defensive armor. "I meant we didn't have to fake the hand-holding and the staged photos anymore! I didn't mean you stop acting like my best friend!"

"I am not acting like anything," Erling replied softly.

"Then why are you ignoring me?!" Jude shouted into the mic, his pride entirely blinding him, refusing to yield an inch of ground. "It takes five seconds to answer a call! You always picked up!"

A long, heavy breath vibrated through the speaker, carrying an unyielding, bitter weight straight into Jude's ear.

"Because, Jude," Erling murmured, the words dropping like heavy lead, "I made time for you. Always."

Jude froze mid-stride, his mouth slightly open.

"Even when there was no contract," the Norwegian continued, his tone dangerously steady. "Even when you called me at two in the morning from Dortmund complaining about your form. Even when you left your shit all over my house. I made time. But you don't get to demand my time just to satisfy your own fucking ego when it's convenient for you."

A sharp, violent flush crept up Jude's neck. His pride surged forward like a wall, completely locking down his brain, shutting out the quiet, devastating truth underneath Erling’s words. He refused to be put in the wrong. He was Jude Bellingham. He had managed the media, he had saved his own career, he had orchestrated the whole thing—he wasn't the problem here.

"Unbelievable," Jude hissed, his voice dropping into a cold, lethal register. "So you're saying I'm selfish? After everything we just did?"

"I'm saying you got what you wanted, Jude," Erling deadpanned. "The press left you alone. Your reputation is fine. You're clear."

"Fine," Jude spat out, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. "If I'm such a burden to your schedule, don't worry about it. Don't pick up. Don't text back. I won't bother you again."

Silence fell over the line—a long, agonizing stretch of empty air that dragged on until the heavy, uneven sound of Erling’s breath was the only thing cutting through the quiet. The giant didn't answer right away. More precisely, he couldn't.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Erling let out a low, deeply reluctant exhale.

"...Okay," the Norwegian rumbled, the word pulled from his throat like gravel, quiet, heavy, and completely stripped of any fight.

The line went dead with a soft click.

Jude pulled the phone away from his ear, staring at the black screen in total, stunned disbelief. His heart was hammering a furious, frantic beat against his ribs, his chest burning with hot, defensive rage. He threw the phone onto his mattress, crossing his arms tightly as he stared out the floor-to-ceiling glass doors at the quiet Madrid skyline.

Fine, Jude thought, his ego standing tall and impenetrable against the crushing silence of the room. Let him be dramatic. He'll call back in two days when he cools off.

Erling didn't call back.

Life back in Madrid gradually settled into a dull, repetitive rhythm. The media had completely moved on from the tunnel incident, the pitch performances were solid, and the press left Jude alone—exactly as his master plan had dictated. Yet, the estate in La Finca felt vast, quiet, and unsettlingly cold. Without a certain blond giant stomping through the kitchen or leaving oversized hoodies on the living room furniture, the silence in the house was almost deafening.

Jude threw himself into his routine. Training, recovery, tactics, sleep. He kept his head down, ignoring the phantom urge to check his phone every twenty minutes, convincing himself his pride was completely intact.

Then came a three-day weekend leave ahead of his dad's birthday, giving him a brief window to head back to England.

It was late Thursday evening when Jude pulled a duffle bag onto his bed to pack. Reaching into the bottom of his closet, he looked for his usual travel essential—a pair of soft, lightweight hotel slippers to toss into the bag.

There were none.

He frowned, dropping to his knees to rummage through the entire bottom rack. He checked the hallway closet. He checked the guest bathroom. Not a single pair.

Mum. It had to be. His mum had stayed over at La Finca a few weeks prior, and she was always tidying up his pristine wardrobes.

Pulling out his phone, Jude dialed her while pacing his bedroom floor.

"Mum, quick question," Jude started, shifting his phone to his other ear. "Did you throw away those hotel slippers I kept in the closet when you were over in Madrid? I can't find a single pair."

"Throw them away?" Denise's voice sounded amused through the receiver. "Darling, why on earth would I touch your little collection? I didn't move anything."

Jude froze in the middle of his room. "You didn't?"

"No, sweetie. Though I did wonder when you were going to stop hoarding them from every hotel in Europe," she chuckled softly. Then, after a beat of silence, "Aren't they all at Erling's?"

The line seemed to drop into a complete, absolute vacuum.

"What?" Jude whispered.

"Well, every time you come back from Manchester or stay over at his place, you never bring them back," Denise explained gently, oblivious to the earthquake she had just triggered in her son's mind. "You've been leaving them there for four years, Jude. I just assumed you kept your house shoes at your boyfriend's."

Denise kept talking about birthday dinner plans, but Jude didn't hear a single word. He slowly lowered the phone from his ear, staring blankly at the dark window reflected in his bedroom mirror.

He left them there.

Every single pair. Manchester, Munich, London, Madrid. Four years of stolen hotel slippers, carefully scooped off the rug, set neatly by the front door, and kept in a closet in England.

It wasn't a PR stunt. It wasn't a sudden, frantic tactic cooked up in a Manchester living room to bury a violent conduct charge. It had never been fake. Jude hadn't just left thirty-cent terrycloth slides at Erling’s estate—he had slowly, methodically left his life, his comfort, and his heart there, bit by bit, until there was nothing left of him in Madrid except an empty house and an oversized ego.

He wanted his slippers back. He wanted his clothes back. He wanted the raw milk smoothies, the heavy silence on the sofa, the unyielding grip on his hip in the back of dark vans, and the giant who made time for him—always.

He wanted everything with Erling.

By Friday afternoon, Jude wasn't on a flight to Birmingham.

He stood on the curb outside Manchester Airport, a heavy rolling suitcase resting against his shin, the damp English air biting at his cheeks. His chest was tight, his pulse hammering an erratic rhythm against his ribs, but for the first time in three weeks, the suffocating fog in his brain had completely cleared.

He caught a black cab straight to the gated estate in Cheshire.

The taxi ride felt like a blur of grey highways and rain-slicked windshields. When the cab finally pulled down the familiar, quiet driveway and came to a halt, Jude paid the driver, dragged his luggage onto the stone porch, and stood before the massive mahogany front door.

He didn't call ahead nor did he text.

Gathering every ounce of courage left in his body, Jude reached out and knocked firmly three times. A few seconds passed. Heavy, familiar footsteps echoed against the hardwood inside. The lock clicked, and the heavy door swung slowly open.

There stood Erling.

He was wearing slouched grey sweatpants, an oversized faded t-shirt, and in his large hand, he held a glass of dark green kale smoothie. And right there, on his massive feet, resting on the welcome mat, was a pristine pair of white, plush Ritz-Carlton hotel slippers.

The pure domesticity of the scene hit Jude so hard his breath caught in his throat. He had rehearsed a speech on the plane. He was going to start with a casual, suave line—something like, “Hello, can I have my slippers back?”

Instead, looking at the giant standing in the soft hallway light, Jude’s mouth opened, and his brain completely short-circuited.

"Hello, can I stay forever?" Jude blurted out.

Silence fell over the porch.

Jude’s eyes went wide as saucers. A violent, scorching flush rushed up his neck, flooding his cheeks instantly. Oh my god. Did I just say that out loud?

Erling stood frozen for a beat, staring down at the flustered midfielder. Then, his pale blue eyes crinkled at the corners, his broad shoulders began to shake, and a sudden, booming burst of genuine laughter broke from his chest, echoing right out into the damp afternoon air.

"I'm sorry!" Jude squeaked frantically, hiding his face in his hands, his ego completely crumbling into dust. "I'm so sorry, Erling, I didn't mean—I mean, I did mean it, but—I'm sorry!"

Setting his green smoothie down on the entry console table, Erling stepped across the threshold, his laughter softening into a warm, breathless chuckle. He reached out, gently pulling Jude’s hands away from his bright red face.

"Jude," Erling rumbled, his voice thick with that deep, familiar warmth that instantly anchored Jude's racing pulse. "I forgave you that night I ended the call."

Jude looked up, his dark eyes shining with raw, undefended emotion. "You did?"

"Of course I did, you idiot," the giant murmured softly.

Without another second of hesitation, Jude stepped straight into Erling's personal space, throwing his arms tightly around the Norwegian’s neck, burying his face into the warm crook of his shoulder. The familiar scent of sandalwood soap, warm cotton, and home flooded Jude's senses, making his knees feel absurdly weak.

Erling’s massive arms wrapped tightly around Jude's waist, lifting him half an inch off his feet, holding him so solid and close that not a single sliver of air remained between them.

"I thought it was all pretend," Jude confessed into Erling's neck, his voice small, thick, and entirely honest. "I thought... I thought I was just managing a situation. But it wasn't. It's just that. Being with you is normal, Erling. It's comfortable; it's the only place I'm not running."

Erling held him tighter, resting his heavy chin on Jude’s shoulder, letting out a long, contented exhale. "I know, Jude. I know."

Pulling back just an inch, Jude kept his hands resting against the back of Erling's neck, looking up at the broad, handsome face of the striker. His heart was thumping a steady, heavy rhythm against his ribs.

"Can I just..." Jude trailed off, his voice dropping to a whisper.

He closed his eyes, stood up on his tippy-toes, and pressed his lips firmly against Erling's.

The Norwegian froze for a split second in genuine surprise, his breath hitching in his chest. But before Jude could even think about pulling away in panic, Erling’s hands tightened around his waist, deepening the kiss with a slow, heavy intensity that sent a wave of heat straight down Jude's spine.

Erling blindly took a step forward into the foyer, pushing Jude along with him, but his toe caught the edge of Jude’s heavy rolling suitcase.

With a loud, metallic CLACK, the luggage tipped over, crashing onto the hardwood floor and sending both of them stumbling sideways.

They broke apart instantly, gasping for air. Jude’s hair was a mess, his lips were warm and flushed, and Erling was leaning against the wood, holding Jude tightly against his chest as a sudden, uncontrollable burst of shared laughter erupted between them.

"Tactical masterclass," Erling deadpanned against Jude's temple, his chest vibrating with quiet chuckles.

Jude hid his face in Erling's chest, laughing softly as he wrapped his arms around the giant's waist. "Shut up, mate. Just come with me to Birmingham."

He felt a low rumble in Erling's chest before the blond nodded against his dark hair. "Okay, Jude."

"And give me back my slippers!"

Erling tightened his grip, a soft, breathless chuckle vibrating against Jude's temple. "Whatever you want."

The two-hour drive from Manchester to Birmingham was quiet, but it was the kind of heavy, comfortable silence that no longer required a strategy or a speech.

Erling drove with one hand casually resting at the bottom of the steering wheel, his oversized frame taking up half the driver's side of his dark SUV. Jude sat in the passenger seat, his knees pulled up slightly, watching the rainy English countryside blur past the window. Every time Erling adjusted his grip on the wheel, his broad forearm would brush against Jude's knee, a constant, grounding heat that kept Jude entirely anchored to the present.

They pulled into the driveway of the Bellingham home just as the evening sky turned a bruised, dusky purple.

The front door opened before Jude even had his hand on the latch. Denise stepped onto the porch, wiping her hands on a tea towel, her face immediately lighting up as she caught sight of the two figures stepping out of the vehicle.

"Just in time!" she called out over the drizzle, her voice carrying that effortless, familiar warmth. "Dinner's on the table!"

A wave of strange, overwhelming déjà vu washed over Jude as he stepped across the threshold.

It was the exact same scene from three months ago, yet everything had fundamentally shifted. Mark gave Erling that same stoic, approving pat on the shoulder. Jobe strolled down the stairs, trading a lazy, low palm-slap with the Norwegian—"Haaland." "Bellingham."—and without a single word of instruction, Erling casually dropped his bag near the hallway and walked straight into the dining room like he had lived there his entire life.

All five of them sat gathered around the large table. The center was stacked high with roasted chicken, bowls of golden potatoes, and steaming vegetables. Erling sat right beside Jude, his massive plate already loaded with double portions of meat, chewing methodically and looking like the calmest man in England.

Jude sat back in his chair, quietly watching the rhythm of his home. His dad laughing at something low and deadpan Erling murmured. His brother lazily stealing a roasted potato off the giant's plate without asking. His mum leaning over to pour more gravy.

There was no speech to make. No carefully rehearsed PR statement. No glass to tap with a fork.

"Oh, Jude, darling," Denise spoke up smoothly, reaching across the table to pass a basket of fresh rolls. "Did you ever end up finding your slippers? You were so frantic on the phone yesterday."

Jude opened his mouth to formulate a calm, reasonable explanation, but Erling beat him to it without even pausing his fork.

"Yeah," the Norwegian rumbled casually, taking a massive bite of chicken. "He left so many at my place."

Jude's head snapped sideways, his eyebrows drawing together as his ego made one brief, pathetic final stand. "I can't possibly have that many."

In perfect, terrifying unison, Denise, Mark, Jobe, and Erling all looked up from their plates and stated in flat, absolute harmony:

"Yes, you do."

The dining room instantly erupted into a roar of laughter. Jobe nearly choked on his water, Mark shook his head with a quiet chuckle, and Denise just beamed across the table, shaking her head at her eldest son and his lover.

Jude sat frozen for half a second, staring at the four of them. Then, a slow, genuine smile broke across his face, and he began to laugh along with them—deep, breathless, and completely unreserved.

Under the solid oak table, obstructed completely from view, Erling’s large, warm hand slid across the space between their chairs, his thick fingers securely lacing through Jude's.

Jude squeezed back, feeling the steady, heavy pulse of the giant sitting beside him. He looked around the noisy, golden warmth of the room, listening to the laughter echo off the walls, and a quiet, unshakeable certainty settled deep in his chest.

Yep, Jude thought, letting the golden warmth of the room wash over him. This is real.

bonus:

The house had finally quieted down around one in the morning, the golden warmth of the dining room giving way to the cool, familiar shadows of Jude’s childhood bedroom upstairs.

It was a ridiculous fit. 195 centimetres of Norwegian striker and 186 centimetres of English midfielder crushed together onto a single, squeaky twin mattress, their long limbs tangled under a faded quilt that had seen better days in 2018. Erling lay on his side, his broad back pressed against the cold plaster wall to give Jude an extra two inches of room, one heavy, warm arm draped securely over Jude’s waist.

Surrounded by old football posters and dusty trophies, Jude rested his head against the dip of Erling's collarbone, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars still stuck to the ceiling.

Slowly, the giant shifted his weight, a massive hand tracing soft, lazy circles over the fabric of Jude's shirt.

"Jude?" Erling murmured into the quiet dark, his raspy voice dropping into a low, rumbling hum.

"Mmm?"

"What made you punch the guy anyway?"

The room fell still for half a second. Jude’s breath hitched, the ghost of that tunnel lights, the deafening adrenaline, and the heavy crack of his knuckles briefly flashing behind his eyes. He tightened his grip on Erling's waist, burying his nose a fraction deeper into the giant's chest.

"Oh," Jude muttered, his tone dropping into a small, grumbled confession. "He told me I was no good without Haaland. Said my skills were just a fluke, and I wasn't that great anyway. Called me Haaland’s bitch."

Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.

Then, Erling’s thick arm tightened around Jude's spine, pulling him so close their chests pressed flat together. He leaned down, his lips brushing against the top of Jude’s messy curls, his voice carrying an unshakeable, terrifyingly sincere weight.

"No," the Norwegian rumbled softly into the dark. "He's wrong. I'm the one who's no good without you."

A sudden, helpless burst of warmth exploded in Jude's chest. He couldn't help it—a high, breathless giggle bubbled right out of his throat, sounding embarrassingly like a teenager with a massive, uncontainable crush. He hid his bright, burning face right against Erling’s neck, his shoulders shaking with quiet laughter.

Erling didn't laugh. Instead, he pressed a slow, tender kiss directly to Jude's forehead, his warm lips lingering against Jude's skin for a long, quiet moment.

"But," the giant deadpanned smoothly, his voice dropping into a flat, terrifyingly calm tone that lacked every trace of humor, "if I see that guy again, Jude. I am going to punch him, too."

A delicious, ridiculous shiver ran straight down Jude's spine at the sheer, unhinged threat vibrating against his cheek.

Deciding discretion was the better part of valor, Jude promptly squeezed his eyes shut, keeping his hands loosely wrapped around Erling's waist and feigning the slow, heavy breathing of someone who had just magically fallen fast asleep—all while his terrifying boyfriend calmly plotted a strategic murder case right beside him on a twin bed in Birmingham.

And if it actually happened? Jude thought, a tiny, secret smile tugging at the corner of his lips into the darkness of the pillow.

Oh well. He’d just have to look the other way.