AYO TECHNOLOGY !
In your defence, kissing Jobe Bellingham had seemed like a brilliant idea at the time. It's the waking up in his bed with absolutely no recollection afterwards that's proving to be the issue.
WARNINGS ◦ alcohol use ◦ mention of a one night stand ◦ friends to lovers ◦ they all suck at feelings i'm not proud of it lol ◦ a tiny bit of angst ◦ mention of kissing and making out in public spaces ◦ jobe is the only mature one on this lmfao ◦ description of hangovers and overall a pretty light read ◦ consent talks ◦ love confessions!!!
6,141 ━━━━━ oneshot jobe bellingham x reader
۶ৎ 𝓩 , first time writing for my '05 twin, kinda nervous. HOW THE HELL IS THIS MAN SO FINE AND NOT MINE. sorry. anyways, enjoy this jobe drabble whoever finds this <3
━━━━━ read on ao3
You wake to the low, steady hum of the ceiling fan circling overhead, each lazy rotation stirring the air just enough to brush across your skin. This ceiling is smooth and white, unmarked by the faint water stain that greets you most mornings in your own flat. Your mouth feels coated in something stale and bitter, like cheap vodka and broken decisions, your head throbs in time with it, a deep, insistent pulse that radiates from your temples down through your jaw.
For a long moment you lie perfectly still on your back, eyes closed, simply cataloguing the wreckage: the pounding in your skull, the uneasy roll in your stomach, the vague but growing certainty that something has gone very wrong.
You know this room, the realisation settles slowly, like sediment in still water. The faint trace of cedarwood and fresh laundry in the sheets, the old Sunderland poster taped to the far wall, edges curling from years of loyalty he’s never quite outgrown, a pair of grass-stained boots kicked carelessly near the wardrobe door.
Jobe’s room. At his parents’ house.
You keep your eyes shut a little longer, as if that might delay the rest of it, but the bed shifts under you with the smallest movement and the truth presses in anyway.
The mattress dips more than it should on his side. The body next to you takes up space, has always taken up space actually, even before the professional training sculpted him into the tall, broad-shouldered athlete he is now. You can feel the warmth radiating from him without looking, the duvet is pulled low across his body, and when you finally turn your head on the pillow, the sight hits you fully.
Jobe’s lying on his back, one arm flung loosely above his head, snoring lightly in that soft, unconscious way he’s done since you were kids sharing tents on family camping trips. He is only in dark briefs, the fabric clings to the solid lines of his hips and thighs, the kind of quiet power built from endless drills and matches, his chest rises and falls steadily, the muscles there defined but relaxed in sleep, skin still carrying the faint tan of training pitches under brighter skies.
He fills the bed, not just occupies it. One of his long legs has slipped out from under the duvet, foot hanging off the edge, the space between you feels suddenly too small, too intimate, too dangerous.
You glance down at yourself and the world narrows to the soft black fabric pooling across your lap. One of Jobe’s old training shirts, faded from countless washes, the collar stretched just enough to slip off one shoulder, drapes loosely over you, the hem skimming the tops of your thighs.
The material is warm from sleep, carrying the faint, familiar scent of his detergent and something undeniably him. No bra. Just the thin lace of your underwear beneath, a stark reminder that you are wearing almost nothing in a bed that is not your own. Your bare legs rest shyly against the dark sheets. One knee is slightly bent, the other stretched out, toes curled against the cool air.
You take it in slowly, piece by piece, as if cataloguing evidence at a scene you don’t fully remember joining. The shirt is enormous on you, sleeves swallowing your hands when you lift them. It used to hang off him differently—broader shoulders, longer torso—back when he was still growing into the professional frame he carries now. Your dress, the one you’d chosen for the family party yesterday, lies in a pathetic heap near the door. One thin strap is torn or slipped free, the fabric wrinkled and stained with what looks like spilled vodka, a single heel pokes out from underneath it, abandoned.
The details settle heavily, you are in Jobe’s bed, in his shirt, half-dressed. And he is right there beside you, all six-foot-something of him, long limbs and quiet breathing filling the space like he was always meant to take up that much room. The duvet has slipped low on his hips, revealing the defined cut of his abs and the sharp line where his training shorts usually sit.
For several long seconds you simply stare, letting the pieces hover without quite connecting. This is Jobe, the boy who once raced you on bikes down the dead-lock, the teenager who sat beside you at your cousin’s funeral and didn’t try to fill the silence, the young man who sends you memes at odd hours from Germany and asks how your week is going like it still matters. Family, in every way that counts. The thought lingers, warm and familiar at first, before the colder edge creeps in.
Your pulse begins to pick up. You become aware of the faint ache in your muscles, the dryness in your throat, the way your hair is tangled against the pillow. What exactly happened after the walk home? The kiss flickers back, his mouth surprised but yielding, the taste of gin and laughter, but the rest is fog. How did you end up here? How did the clothes come off? Did you…?
The panic arrives then, not all at once but in a slow, cold bloom that spreads outward from your chest.
You’ve known Jobe your entire life, he is safety and history and the kind of uncomplicated love that comes from years of shared Sunday lunches and inside jokes. Ruining that, crossing a line neither of you had ever even glanced at, feels like the worst possible outcome.
You press the heel of your hand hard against your forehead, willing the spinning to stop, but the memories keep flashing anyway.
The family birthday party yesterday afternoon, Denise pulling you into one of her enveloping hugs the moment you walked through the door, hands on your cheeks as she asked, for the third time that month, whether you were eating enough. Mark in the kitchen making terrible dad jokes while flipping burgers. Jude winding Jobe up across the table with stories from Madrid, the two brothers falling into their easy rhythm while you watched with the same fond exasperation you’d felt for years.
Then the club later with the old childhood group. Rounds of drinks, embarrassing stories traded like currency, the walk home under the orange streetlights, just the two of you after the others peeled off. Jobe’s arm slung casually around your shoulders when the pavement felt unsteady. The sudden, surprising press of his mouth to yours—warm, not rushed— and then more kisses after that, your hands in his shirt, his quiet laugh against your lips. Then… nothing.
A blank wall where the rest of the night should be.
You sit there for a long moment, heart hammering against your ribs, the duvet still pooled around your waist. The panic is real now, but you don’t move. You just breathe through it, eyes fixed on the rise and fall of your childhoon bestfriend's chest, waiting for the courage, or the disaster, to break.
But the silence stretches too long, and the not-knowing becomes unbearable. Your hand moves before your brain catches up, you reach over and shake his shoulder, gentle at first, then more insistent when he only murmurs something incoherent.
“Jobe,” you whisper. No response. “Sam." Another shake, harder this time. "Sam, wake up.”
He stirs properly this time, a low groan rumbling in his chest as his eyes flutter open. For a second he looks lost, still half-lost in whatever dream he’d been having. Then his gaze lands on you, really lands, and the confusion sharpens.
You shake him one more time for good measure, inconvenient and frantic. “Fucking hell, Jobe, wake up.”
“Fuck off,” he mumbles, voice gravel-rough with sleep. His hand comes up automatically, large and warm, closing gently around your wrist to still your shaking. He doesn’t open his eyes right away, just lets out a low, annoyed groan and turns his face into the pillow for a second, clearly battling his own hangover. “It’s too early for this, princess. My head is killing me.”
You shake his shoulder again anyway, persistent. “Jobe Samuel. I’m serious.”
He cracks one eye open, squinting against the light filtering through the curtains. The annoyance is still there, brow furrowed, mouth turned down in a classic Jobe scowl that you’ve seen a hundred times when he’s tired or hungover or both. He looks properly rumpled: hair messy, a faint crease on his cheek from the pillow, the full athletic frame of him taking up most of the bed like he’d grown into it overnight years ago.
“Christ,” he mutters, pushing himself up onto one elbow with another groan. The duvet slips lower on his hips, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care. “You’re relentless even when I’m dying. What’s got you—?”
He finally looks at you properly. The annoyance flickers, then fades as his gaze travels over you: his oversized shirt slipping off your shoulder, the way you’re sitting bolt upright with panic written all over your face, the crumpled dress on the floor.
Realisation clicks in slowly behind his eyes, the memories from last night start filtering back—the club, the walk, your hands on his face, the taxi, the stairs.
He sits up fully now, back against the headboard, and runs a hand over his face, rubbing the sleep and hangover away as best he can.
“Alright, darling,” he says, voice lower and gentler now, the gravel still there but wrapped in warmth. “What’s the rush about? You trying to kick me out of my own bed or something?”
You stare at him, equal parts horrified and irritated that he’s already slipping into banter mode while your entire world feels like it’s tilting sideways.
“This is serious, Jobe,” you snap, voice cracking with frustration. “I’m literally having a breakdown here.”
He pauses, the sleepy smirk fading as he really looks at you. The hangover is still written across his face, the slight wince when he moves his head, the slow way he blinks, but the teasing drains away. He shifts a little closer, the mattress dipping under his weight, and rests his back more firmly against the headboard.
“Alright,” he says quietly, more awake now. “Are you hurt?”
The question hangs there, a beat of heavy, awkward silence stretches between you. Jobe is watching you, waiting, clearly trying to figure out why you look two seconds away from bolting.
You take a shaky breath, fingers twisting in the hem of his shirt. “Did we sleep together?”
Jobe’s brow furrows. He stares at you for a second like you’ve just spoken another language. “What?” The word comes out half-laugh, half-confused. “Princess, what are you on about?”
You gesture wildly between the two of you, the panic bubbling over into a rushed, embarrassed rant.
“Look at us! I’m in nothing but your shirt and my underwear. You’re practically naked, my dress is on the floor looking like it lost a fight, I woke up in your bed with zero memory after we were kissing on the way home. I’m not crazy, this looks exactly like the morning after something happened!”
Your voice cracks a little on the last part. You feel ridiculous even saying it out loud, but the evidence is right there in front of you, impossible to ignore.
Jobe listens without interrupting, his expression shifting from confusion to quiet understanding as you speak.
Then a quiet, low laugh escapes him, not at you, but the gentle, fond kind he’s always had when you work yourself up over something.
“Darling, relax,” he says, warm and patient. He reaches over and gently tugs the hem of his shirt down a little more on your thigh, a small, thoughtful gesture. “We didn’t sleep together, slow down."
He leans back against the headboard again, rubbing his temple with two fingers like the hangover is still punishing him, but his eyes stay on you.
“You were proper gone last night, we both were. But I got you upstairs, helped you change because your dress was covered in vodka, gave you water, and made sure you didn’t fall down the stairs trying to go back down. That’s it, nothing else happened.”
You narrow your eyes at him, the sharp edge of panic now tangled with pure irritation at the faint trace of laughter still lingering in his voice. The morning light filtering through the curtains casts long, soft shadows across the room, catching on the faded posters on the walls and the scattered clothes on the floor.
“Stop fucking laughing, Jobe. This is serious.”
“I’m not laughing at you,” he says, though the small, amused grin is definitely still tugging at the corner of his mouth. He shifts against the headboard, the mattress creaking softly under his weight. “It’s just… you look proper traumatised and I’m trying not to die from this headache.”
For a moment the two of you just stare at each other. You can see the hangover weighing on him, the slight tightness around his eyes, the way he squints against the light. You shove his shoulder, not hard, but enough to make your point. His skin is warm under your palm.
“We were kissing,” you insist, voice rising. “At the club and on the way home. Don’t act like that’s nothing.”
Jobe winces, a proper grimace this time as he drags a hand slowly down his face. He leans his head back against the headboard with a quiet thud, eyes briefly closing as if the memory itself is painful.
“Well… fuck,” he mutters. “Yeah, we did that.”
“See!” You throw your hands up in exasperation, the oversized shirt slipping further off one shoulder. “You kissed me first, you idiot.”
His head snaps toward you, eyebrows raised. “C'mon, darling, there's no need to lie here.”
“Yes, you did!”
“No, princess,” he says, fighting a smile now, the banter flowing easily even through the hangover haze. “You were all over me, c’mon.” He gestures loosely with one hand. “You kept grabbing my face and telling me my ears were cute. My ears.”
The words hang in the air for half a second. Something inside you snaps, half embarrassment, half fond frustration. You snatch the nearest pillow and swing it at him. Once. Twice. The soft thuds echo lightly in the quiet room, he doesn’t even try to block it properly, just lets out a low, rumbling laugh and takes the hits, shoulders shaking slightly with each one, as if this kind of ridiculous morning scuffle is the most natural thing in the world between you two.
“Promise me nothing happened,” you demand, hitting him again for good measure, the pillow making a muffled whump against his chest. “Promise me, Jobe.”
He’s still letting you whack him, patient and oddly cute about it, one arm resting lazily across his knee, until your voice cracks on the last “Promise me.” The playfulness in the air shifts almost instantly, the laughter fades from his face.
That does it.
He catches both of your wrists gently but firmly with one large hand, stopping the pillow mid-swing. He doesn’t squeeze, his grip is warm and steady, just enough to still you. His expression turns serious as he looks straight at you, hangover or not, the morning light catching the side of his face.
“I wouldn’t do that to you. You know that,” he says, voice low and steady, eyes locked on yours. “I promise. Nothing happened.”
The words came without hesitation. They weren't defensive, they weren't offended, they sounded almost confused that you could even think otherwise.
You stared back at him, your breathing still uneven. "We were drunk."
"I know."
"So how can you be so sure?"
“Because it’s you,” he says finally. “You’re family. Mum trusts me with you, do you think I'd do something like that? Hurting you like that — especially when you’re not even fully there — would never cross my mind. With anyone, really."
Silence settled between you again, broken only by the slow whir of the ceiling fan above. Your eyes drifted down to the shirt hanging off your shoulder, to the rumpled sheets pooled around your legs, before returning to him.
You look away toward the window, throat tight. The panic isn’t just about the possibility of sex anymore, it’s about the fear that you might have destroyed the safest relationship you’ve ever had.
"You don't get it," you murmured, your voice much quieter now. "If we'd actually..." You swallowed hard, unable to finish the sentence. "God, Jobe... I'm so sorry."
Something softened across his expression. "Now why are you saying sorry for, princess?" He let go of your wrists then, giving you the space to breathe, but he didn't move away. "Breathe, darling."
He leaned back against the headboard and watched you with that same patient expression he'd worn ever since you were children crying over scraped knees or broken friendships.
"I helped you upstairs," he starts carefully, piecing the night together out loud more for your benefit than his own. "Your dress was soaked in vodka because you'd somehow managed to spill half your drink down yourself." You look up at him through your fingers that were previously hiding the embarrassment in your face. "You kept saying you were fine while tripping over your own feet." The corner of his mouth twitched despite himself. "I found one of my old shirts, made you change into it, gave you water, spent ten minutes convincing you not to sleep in your makeup..."
"And then?"
His smile grew a fraction wider. "And then you kept trying to kiss me like when we were in the club."
Heat rushed to your face immediately. "No."
"Mhm."
"Jobe."
"We did kiss," he admitted more quietly, his eyes dropping briefly to the duvet before finding yours again. "A few times."
You felt your stomach sink.
“I kissed you back,” he admits, voice low. “For a bit. I wanted to. But after a while you were barely keeping your eyes open, so I stopped.” He shrugs one shoulder, simple and honest. “That’s the truth.”
The confession hangs between you, understated and raw.
You feel your chest tighten. “Did I… make you uncomfortable? Did I ignore you when you said no? Did I put you in a shitty position?”
Jobe’s expression softens further. He leans forward slightly.
“No, darling, you didn’t. You were just… you. Drunk and affectionate and a little bit chaotic. You kept asking if Germany was really that far away, told me you missed me more than you say when you’re sober. Tried convincing me to stay in England.” A small, fond smile touches his lips. “You also told me my eyelashes were trustworthy. That one’s going in the permanent record.”
You groan and hide your face in the pillow for a second. When you peek out again, he’s watching you with that patient, steady look.
“I was worried about you last night,” he continues more seriously. “You were all over the place. Strangers kept trying to talk to you at the club. It scared me, thinking how easily someone else could’ve taken advantage. So yeah… don’t get that loose when I’m not around. Please, not because I’m trying to control you, because I care what happens to you.”
The silence that follows feels different now, heavier, but warmer. You’re still clutching the pillow. He’s still close, one hand resting near yours on the duvet. Neither of you seems ready to name what shifted last night, but the air between you feels undeniably changed.
Sunlight has crept further across the floor, catching dust motes and the faint scuff marks on the wooden boards, Jobe’s thumb makes one absent pass over the edge of the duvet before stilling. You watch it, hyper-aware of every small movement, every shared breath in the quiet space.
Eventually you find your voice again, small and hesitant. “So the kissing… that part really happened.”
Jobe exhales through his nose, a long, thoughtful sound, he doesn’t look away from the window at first. When he does turn back to you, his expression is calm, almost thoughtful, like he’s turning the night over in his mind piece by piece.
“Yeah,” he says simply. “It did.”
You wait. The silence stretches again, comfortable enough that you don’t feel the need to fill it right away. You pull the duvet a little higher over your legs, fingers tracing the soft edge of the fabric, Jobe shifts his weight against the headboard, the mattress dipping slightly under him, and rubs a hand over his jaw.
“I kept thinking about it on the walk home,” he continues after a moment, voice low. “Watching those lads at the club come up to you. It bothered me more than I expected. Not in some big dramatic way. Just… I didn’t like it.” He lets out a small, self-aware huff, almost surprised at his own admission. “Didn’t realise how much until I said it out loud just now.”
You glance at him. He meets your eyes steadily, no deflection, no attempt to soften it into a joke.
“Why did you kiss me?” The question slips out quieter than you intended, but it feels important.
Jobe doesn’t rush to answer, he looks down at the space between you on the bed for a long beat, then back up. His voice is even, confident in that understated way he has when he’s decided to be honest.
“Because I wanted to,” he says. “The alcohol probably made it easier to stop overthinking it, but it didn’t create something that wasn’t already there, at least not for me.”
The words settle between you like the dust in the sunlight. You feel your chest tighten again, but this time it’s not panic.
“We kissed before I got too far gone,” he adds, as if reading the next question on your face. “On the walk home, a few times. I wanted that part, I don’t regret it.” His gaze holds yours. “I only stopped things later because you weren’t really there anymore. Both of those things can be true at the same time. I wanted to kiss you… but I’d never take advantage of you.”
You let that sit for a while. The fan keeps turning, somewhere downstairs a door opens and closes softly — Mark, probably, moving around the kitchen. The ordinary sounds of the house feel strangely grounding against the weight of the conversation.
“I don’t think they were a mistake,” Jobe says after another long pause, his voice quiet but certain. “The kisses. If you decide you regret them, I’ll respect that completely, but I’m not going to lie and say they meant nothing just because that would be easier.”
You look at him, really look. The boy who grew up beside you, now a man taking up space in his childhood bed, speaking with the kind of steady honesty that makes your throat feel tight. No grand speeches, no sudden declarations, just Jobe, being Jobe.
A small, surprised laugh escapes you, shaky but genuine. He smiles in response, the corner of his mouth lifting in that familiar way.
“I’d quite like to kiss you again,” he says casually, as if commenting on the weather. “When we’re both sober this time.”
The laugh between you feels lighter now, shared and easy. You shake your head, still half-hiding behind the pillow, the fabric soft and familiar against your cheek. Jobe’s smile lingers, small and unhurried, as he watches you from his side of the bed.
The morning light has shifted again, warming the walls and catching on the edges of old trophies lined up on a shelf across the room. Everything in here feels suspended between childhood and adulthood — the Sunderland poster, the boots, the faint scent of grass still clinging to them.
You lower the pillow slowly into your lap, fingers tracing one of its worn seams. The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable, but it is full. Ordinary sounds that make the conversation feel strangely intimate, as if the rest of the house is politely pretending not to exist.
“Fuck Jobe,” you say after a while, voice quieter now, almost testing the words. “We really kissed. That part was not just some blurry half-memory.”
Jobe nods once, his gaze drifting briefly to the window before returning to you. He scratches the back of his neck, a small, habitual gesture you’ve seen a thousand times when he’s thinking something through.
“Yeah,” he says again, simpler this time. “We did.”
You let that sit between you. You pull the duvet a little higher over your legs, suddenly aware of how exposed you still feel, even though the worst of the panic has eased. Jobe doesn’t rush to fill the quiet, he simply waits, one hand resting loosely on his knee, the other near yours on the bed, close enough that you can feel the warmth but not quite touching.
He exhales through his nose, a thoughtful sound. His eyes drop to the space between you on the mattress for a long moment, as if he’s replaying pieces of the night in his head, the club lights, the walk home, the way the streetlamps had cast long shadows across the pavement.
When he speaks, his voice is low, almost like he’s surprising himself with the admission.
“I spent most of the night at the club trying to convince myself I was just looking out for you,” he says. “The way I always have. But every time another bloke came over, bought you a drink, tried talking to you… it bothered me. More than it should have.” He lets out a small, self-deprecating huff. “Didn’t realise how much until I was walking you home and suddenly it wasn’t just protectiveness anymore.”
You glance at him. He meets your eyes steadily.
“What happens now?” you ask eventually, voice soft.
Jobe thinks for a moment, then smiles again, small, genuine, the corner of his mouth lifting in that familiar way.
“I’d quite like to do this properly,” he says, casual but certain. “Take you on an actual date. No hangovers. No blurry memories.”
You let out a soft laugh, the sound mixing with his own quiet one. The tension in the room eases further, replaced by something warmer, lighter, hopeful in the most ordinary way.
“And yeah,” he adds after a beat, eyes meeting yours with that same quiet confidence, “I’d quite like to kiss you again. This time when we’re both completely sober.”
For a while, neither of you said anything.
The conversation had reached that strange point where silence no longer felt uncomfortable, only necessary. Too much had been said in too short a space of time, each admission quietly rearranging something neither of you had realised was capable of moving. The panic that had seized you when you first opened your eyes had long since dissolved, leaving behind the dull ache of a hangover and an unfamiliar awareness every time your eyes wandered back to him.
Jobe seemed content to let the quiet settle. He rested his forearms across his knees, staring absent-mindedly at the floorboards, his fingers loosely linked together as though he were still replaying pieces of the previous night in his head. The room looked exactly as it always had, childhood trophies gathering dust, old football posters refusing to be taken down, boots abandoned near the wardrobe after yesterday's kickabout with family friends, but somehow none of it felt quite the same anymore.
The spell finally broke with the unmistakable crash of a cupboard downstairs. A second later Mark's voice floated faintly through the floorboards. "How've we managed to lose every bloody mug in this house?!"
Jobe shut his eyes for a second before letting out a quiet laugh through his nose.
"Dad's up."
"So it would seem." You smiled despite yourself.
His eyes met yours.
"I should probably..." you started, gesturing vaguely towards the bedroom door.
"Yeah."
Neither of you moved.
The hesitation almost made you laugh. It wasn't awkwardness exactly, more the quiet reluctance that comes after a conversation neither person had expected to have before breakfast.
Eventually Jobe pushed himself to his feet with a low groan, stretching until something in his back cracked. "Christ..."
"You sound about fifty."
"I feel about eighty."
You watched him shuffle across the room to retrieve yesterday's clothes, scratching lazily at the back of his head before tossing you your handbag from beside the desk. Your dress was another matter entirely.
You picked it up between two fingers, frowning at the dried splash of vodka staining the front. The fabric felt stiff and slightly tacky under your touch, a small, ridiculous reminder of how the night had unravelled. Jobe glanced over from where he stood near the wardrobe, his expression softening with the kind of easy familiarity that had always existed between you, even in the middle of this strange morning.
"It'll wash."
"It absolutely won't."
"It might."
You held it up for him to see more clearly, the morning light catching the faint sheen of the stain. He studied it for a second, the faint crease between his brows deepening before he gave an exaggerated wince that carried no real weight, only the gentle teasing that had always been part of your rhythm.
"...Yeah, alright."
You looked at him expectantly, one eyebrow raised in the quiet challenge that needed no words. He sighed with theatrical resignation, running a hand through his messy hair as he turned back toward the wardrobe.
"I'll replace it."
"Damn right you will."
"There goes next week's wages."
"You play professional football."
"I know."
"So don't act like you're struggling."
He laughed softly, the sound low and warm as he disappeared briefly into the wardrobe, emerging with a clean shirt.
The conversation slipped back into the rhythm it had always known, easy teasing filling the spaces where sharper embarrassment had lived only minutes before. It struck you, somewhere between complaining about your ruined dress and watching him wrestle the T-shirt over his head, the fabric stretching across his shoulders in a way that felt both utterly ordinary and newly aware, that nothing about speaking to Jobe had changed. Everything else had.
You changed in the bathroom while he made the bed, not perfectly, because he had never learned how Denise liked the hospital corners folded, but well enough that nobody would immediately assume two twenty-year-olds had spent the night tangled in it. By the time you wandered downstairs together, still rubbing the last traces of sleep from your eyes, the smell of fresh toast and brewing tea had drifted through the hallway, grounding the morning in something comfortingly familiar.
Mark stood at the kitchen counter with a mug in one hand and the morning paper in the other, the sunlight from the garden window catching the steam rising from his drink.
"There they are."
"Morning," the two of you answered together, voices overlapping in that unconscious way people do when they have shared years of the same spaces.
"Hm."
He folded another page of the paper with a quiet rustle, his gaze lifting only briefly over the rim of his mug. The kitchen felt warm and lived-in around you, the faint clink of dishes in the sink and the low hum of the fridge creating a soft backdrop to the ordinary exchange.
"You alive?"
"Barely," Jobe muttered, already reaching for the coffee pot, his shoulder brushing yours as he moved past.
Mark hummed in response, a dry, knowing sound that carried no judgment, only the quiet amusement of a man who had seen far worse mornings in this house.
"Bin's outside."
Jobe frowned slightly, pouring himself a mug as the rich scent of coffee filled the space between you.
"What for?"
"You'll work it out."
There was a beat of silence, the kind that stretched just long enough for realisation to settle. Your face disappeared into both hands as the memory flickered back, hazy but mortifying.
"Oh, no..."
Jobe looked between the two of you, confusion still clouding his features as he set the pot down with a soft clink. "...What?"
"You threw up in Mum's roses."
His expression froze for a moment, the full weight of it landing as Mark delivered the line with the same understated dryness he always carried. You laughed suddenly, the sound bubbling up unexpectedly and forcing you to lean against the kitchen island for support, the cool surface grounding you. Jobe stared at his father in complete disbelief before groaning into both hands, the sound muffled but genuine.
By the time breakfast was finished, the morning had settled into something comfortably ordinary, the dishwasher humming quietly in the background and the faint scent of toast still lingering in the air.
Mark had disappeared into the garden to inspect the alleged crime scene, muttering something about hopeless youngsters under his breath, while Jobe wandered through the house collecting forgotten glasses from the night before, his movements unhurried and familiar. You found yourself lingering by the front door, bag resting on one shoulder, fingers curling loosely around your car keys as the warmth of the day pressed gently against the windows.
"I should head off."
He looked up from the hallway, the light catching the side of his face and highlighting the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.
"Yeah."
Again, neither of you seemed particularly eager to be the first to move. Jobe reached for the front door instead, pulling it open before standing back to let you through. The warmth outside wrapped around you immediately, carrying the familiar smell of freshly cut grass from somewhere further down the road and the distant sound of a neighbour mowing their lawn. He followed you out onto the drive without either of you acknowledging that he was doing it, the gravel shifting softly under your feet.
For a moment you simply stood beside your car, the metal warm from the sun. It wasn't awkward. It just... wasn't familiar yet. You looked at him, studying the face you'd known for almost your entire life, and realised it was somehow both exactly the same and completely different in the bright daylight.
"I suppose," you said eventually, "this is the bit where everything gets weird."
He frowned slightly, hands tucked loosely into the pockets of his joggers as he leaned against the side of the car.
"Does it have to?"
"I don't know."
"I'd rather it didn't."
You smiled, the expression coming easily despite the new undercurrent running beneath everything.
"So would I."
A comfortable silence settled again, the kind filled with the rustle of leaves in the breeze and the faint hum of traffic in the distance. He looked down the street for a moment before speaking, his posture relaxed but his gaze steady when it returned to you.
"I meant what I said upstairs."
"I know."
"I'm not expecting an answer today." Your eyes found his again, the connection lingering in the quiet space between you. "Or tomorrow."
Another small smile touched his mouth, softening the lines of his face.
"I just... think we've spent enough years pretending we're only one thing because it's easier."
The sentence landed gently, no pressure behind it, only honesty earned from years of shared history. He shrugged one shoulder, the movement casual yet deliberate.
"So..."
"So?"
"When I get a free weekend..." His expression softened into something almost boyish despite the quiet confidence he'd carried all morning, the sunlight catching in his eyes as he looked at you. "...let me take you out."
Not because last night had forced the question, but because, for the first time, neither of you had any reason left to pretend you didn't want to. You smiled before you even realised you were doing it, the warmth of it spreading through your chest as you unlocked the car door.
"I think," you said, the words feeling right in the ordinary brightness of the driveway, "I'd quite like that."
His own smile answered yours immediately, easy and genuine, the kind shared between two people who already knew each other better than anyone else ever could. No kiss. No dramatic goodbye. Just the quiet understanding that something had shifted, and for now, that was enough.
As you pulled away a minute later, the engine humming softly beneath you, you caught one last glimpse of him in the rear-view mirror, still standing on the drive with one hand shoved into his pocket, the other lifting in an absent wave. For the first time since waking in his bed, you weren't trying to remember what had happened the night before. You already knew. Instead, your mind wandered somewhere much simpler. You found yourself wondering what Jobe Bellingham was actually like on a first date. And somehow, after a lifetime of knowing him, that felt like the newest question of all.
author's note — it's time to admit: i've replayed that video of him running on the treadmill a thousand times since i saw it #respectfully. also, i got major vibes of woman worshipper with this man i swear, A MAN A MAN A MAN-AN-AN.
TAGLIST — @hesperisms @caratchronicles @candidupped @grittysbiggestfan
Thank you bebs!
