Madrid at 2 A.M.
Pairing: Jude Bellingham x Reader
Word Count:2077
Request open!
Kenan Yildiz Masterlist | Football Masterlist | Football Masterlist II
It’s 1:47 a.m. when you hear the lock turn.
You don’t move at first,just listen for the familiar shuffle, the quiet exhale, the careful way Jude tries to enter your shared apartment like he isn’t a hurricane of noise on the pitch.
Then he appears in the doorway, hair damp from the shower at the stadium, hoodie pulled up like it could hide the fact that the entire city knows his name.
He finds you on the sofa with a blanket over your legs and your phone face-down, pretending you weren’t waiting.
His eyes soften immediately.
“Hey,” he says, voice low and rough, like he’s still running.
You lift your chin. “Hey.”
He drops his bag by the door, then hesitates like he’s deciding whether he’s allowed to be tired in front of you. Jude always does that after matches,holds himself together until he sees you, and then the tension loosens.
“How was it?” you ask gently.
He makes a face. “Don’t.”
You blink. “Don’t?”
“Don’t say the words,” he complains, walking closer. “Don’t say, ‘You played amazing.’ Don’t say, ‘You did your best.’ I’m,” He exhales hard, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I’m gonna combust.”
You open your arms without saying anything.
He doesn’t resist. Jude falls into you like gravity. He sits, pulls you into his chest, and for a second you can feel how hard his heart is still going, thumping against your cheek.
You thread your fingers under the edge of his hood. “Okay,” you murmur. “No words.”
“Thank you,” he mutters into your hair.
You stay like that, your legs tangled, the apartment quiet except for the distant hum of Madrid outside. It’s strangely calm considering, just a few hours ago, he was in front of thousands of people. Now it’s just you and him and the faint smell of his cologne mixed with stadium soap.
Eventually, he shifts back enough to look at you.
His eyes are tired. His mouth is trying to smile anyway.
“You hungry?” you ask.
He stares at you like the idea is suspicious. “At nearly two in the morning?”
“Yes, Jude. People eat food at night.”
He narrows his eyes. “You’re plotting something.”
You shrug, innocent. “Me? Never.”
He gives you a slow once-over like he’s assessing a threat. Then his gaze drops to your blanket. “You stayed up.”
“I was reading,” you lie.
He reaches for your phone and lifts it. The screen is black. He raises an eyebrow.
You snatch it back. “Okay, fine.”
His smile finally breaks through. “You were waiting.”
“Maybe.”
His voice turns soft. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
For a beat, he doesn’t answer. He just looks at you like he’s trying to store the moment somewhere safe.
Then he clears his throat, suddenly casual. “You know what I want?”
“What?”
He leans closer, whispering like it’s a secret. “Churros.”
You blink. “Churros.”
He nods solemnly. “Churros.”
You laugh. “You literally have a chef.”
“That’s not the point.” Jude sits up straighter, getting serious, like he’s about to negotiate a contract. “Listen. Stadium food tastes like cardboard. And I’m not eating another protein thing. If I see another protein bar, I’m calling the police.”
You grin. “The police?”
“Yes,” he insists. “It’s harassment.”
You tap his cheek. “You’re dramatic.”
He catches your hand and kisses your fingertips. “I’m starving.”
“You’re always starving.”
“Because I run around for a living,” he argues. “Come on.”
You stare at him. “You want to leave the apartment right now.”
He nods again. “Yeah.”
“Jude, it’s,”
“Two a.m.,” he finishes for you. “Exactly. Perfect time.”
“It’s not perfect time for anything except sleeping.”
He pouts. It’s subtle, but it’s there. “Please.”
You squint. “Are you using the boyfriend eyes?”
He looks offended. “These are my normal eyes.”
“These are definitely the boyfriend eyes.”
He tries to hold the serious expression for another second, then breaks, laughing quietly. “Okay, fine. I am. It’s been a long night.”
You pretend to think it over, drawing it out just because you can.
Jude watches you like his life depends on your answer.
“Alright,” you say finally. “Churros.”
His entire face lights up. “Yes!”
“But,” you lift a finger.
He freezes. “But?”
“No cameras,” you warn.
His smile turns calmer, more knowing. “No cameras.”
“No people recognizing you.”
He smirks. “That one’s harder.”
You point at him. “Jude.”
He lifts both hands. “I’m kidding. I’m kidding. I’ve got a plan.”
“That’s terrifying.”
“It’s not terrifying. It’s genius.”
You throw the blanket off your legs and stand. “Show me your genius plan.”
He stands too, taller than you, warm and familiar. Then he reaches into his bag and pulls out a black beanie and a pair of glasses with plain lenses.
You stare.
He puts the glasses on with a straight face. “Disguise.”
You burst out laughing. “You look like,”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re about to rob a library,” you wheeze.
He scoffs. “It’s subtle.”
“It’s not subtle. You’re Jude Bellingham.”
“Not with the glasses,” he insists.
You wipe your eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you love me.”
You hesitate just long enough to make him nervous.
He leans in. “Don’t.”
You grin. “I do.”
His shoulders drop in relief, exaggerated. “Good.”
You grab your coat from the hook. “If we get spotted, I’m blaming you.”
He’s already slipping into sneakers. “If we get spotted, I’m sprinting.”
“You’re not sprinting. You just played ninety minutes.”
He points at you. “I can sprint for churros.”
“Footballers are unreal,” you mutter, locking the door behind you.
,
Madrid at night feels like a secret.
The air is cool when you step outside, the streetlights painting everything in gold. Jude immediately shifts closer, like his body instinctively wants to shield you from the world. He tucks his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side.
“You’re warm,” you mumble.
He presses a kiss to your temple. “You’re cold.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re always ‘fine’,” he teases, squeezing your shoulder.
You lean into him anyway. “Where are we even going?”
“There’s a place,” he says, voice low. “A tiny one. Open late. I went once with Fede.”
You glance up at him. “You went for churros with your teammate?”
Jude shrugs. “Don’t judge me. We needed sugar.”
“That’s adorable.”
He groans. “Don’t call me adorable.”
“You’re adorable.”
He lowers his voice dramatically. “I’m a serious athlete.”
You laugh. “Sure.”
As you walk, the city feels softer. Less loud. Fewer eyes. No flashes. Just the sound of your footsteps and Jude’s quiet commentary.
He points at a closed shop. “That place is always packed during the day.”
“You know that because…?”
“I have eyes,” he says defensively. “I live here.”
“You live here,” you repeat, amused, “like a normal person.”
He looks at you. “I am a normal person.”
You tilt your head. “Are you?”
He scoffs. “Yes.”
“Normal people don’t have an entire stadium chanting their name.”
Jude’s mouth twitches. “Okay, but normal people also don’t have you.”
Your chest warms.
You try to play it off. “That sentence didn’t even make sense.”
“It made perfect sense,” he argues. “You get it.”
You bump your shoulder into his. “You’re cheesy.”
He gasps. “Me? Cheesy? I’m literally just stating facts.”
“Facts,” you echo.
“Yes.” He looks down at you, eyes softer now. “Fact: I like this.”
“What?”
“This,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the street, the night, the two of you. “Walking around like nobody cares.”
You swallow. “Nobody does care.”
Jude huffs. “People care too much.”
You squeeze his waist gently. “Then don’t look at them. Look at me.”
He does. Immediately. Like it’s easy.
“Okay,” he says, quieter. “I’m looking.”
It’s the kind of moment that feels almost too real,like you could live in it forever if you asked.
Then his stomach growls loudly.
You freeze.
He freezes too, eyes widening as if betrayed by his own body.
You start laughing again. “Oh my God.”
“Don’t,” he complains, but he’s laughing too. “It’s been a stressful evening.”
“You’re literally a cartoon.”
“I’m hungry,” he insists. “Please.”
“Okay, okay,” you say, still grinning. “Lead the way, Number Five.”
He perks up. “Don’t call me that out here.”
“Why?”
He leans close, whispering. “Because it sounds like I’m famous.”
You roll your eyes. “You are famous.”
He lifts a finger. “Tonight, I’m just Jude.”
You look at him. “Okay, Jude.”
He smiles like you handed him something precious. “Better.”
,
The churros place is exactly what he promised: tiny, warm, bright inside like a pocket of daylight. The smell hits you the second you walk in,fried dough, sugar, chocolate.
Jude’s eyes widen behind his stupid glasses.
“Oh,” he breathes.
You elbow him. “Try not to look like a kid in a candy shop.”
“I can’t,” he says. “This is heaven.”
The woman behind the counter glances at him, then at you, then smiles like she knows more than she’s saying.
“¿Dos chocolate con churros?” she asks.
You answer before Jude can. “Sí, por favor.”
Jude stares at you. “Look at you.”
“What?”
“Ordering like you’re from here,” he says, impressed.
You shrug. “I’ve had to survive on my own sometimes.”
He leans in, murmuring, “I like it when you’re confident.”
Your cheeks heat. “Stop.”
He grins. “No.”
You take a seat at a small table near the window. Jude sits across from you, then immediately reaches his foot out to tap yours under the table like he can’t help it.
“You’re restless,” you observe.
“I’m happy,” he corrects.
“That makes you restless?”
He nods. “Yeah. Like… when I score.”
You soften. “You did score tonight.”
His smile fades a little. “Yeah.”
You tilt your head. “But it didn’t feel good.”
He looks at you like you read his mind. “It should’ve. But I keep thinking about the miss earlier.”
“You’re allowed to be human,” you say simply.
His eyes flick to your hands on the table.
You slide one closer. He takes it, thumb rubbing the back of your knuckles.
“I don’t feel human sometimes,” he admits quietly. “It’s like… people want me to be a headline.”
You squeeze his hand. “You’re not a headline to me.”
His throat bobs. “I know.”
The churros arrive. A plate of golden sticks dusted with sugar, two cups of thick chocolate steaming. Jude looks at it like it’s sacred.
He picks one up carefully. “Cheers,” he says, holding it up.
You lift yours too. “Cheers.”
He dips it into the chocolate, then takes a bite. His eyes flutter shut dramatically.
“Oh my God,” he whispers, reverent.
You laugh. “Is it that serious?”
He chews, swallowing, then points at you with the churro. “You don’t understand. This is healing.”
You dip yours and bite. It’s warm, sweet, and perfect.
You hum. “Okay. Yeah. This is… really good.”
Jude nods vigorously. “See? I told you.”
You take another bite. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.”
He leans forward slightly. “Why not?”
“Because you’re…” You gesture to him. “You.”
He looks genuinely confused. “And you’re you.”
“That’s not,”
He interrupts gently, voice softer now. “I just want to be a boyfriend sometimes.”
You pause.
He says it like it’s simple, but his eyes don’t look simple. They look like he’s asking permission.
So you reach across the table, cup his cheek with chocolate-scented fingers, and smile.
“Then be my boyfriend,” you whisper.
Jude’s whole expression melts.
He leans into your hand. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
His hand covers yours on his cheek. “I love you.”
The words land warm and quiet between you, like the churros, like the night, like the way Madrid doesn’t feel scary when it’s two a.m. and he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing that’s real.
You smile, heart too full. “I love you too.”
He grins, relief and happiness all tangled up. “Good.”
“Good?” you tease.
“Yeah,” he says, dipping another churro. “Because I was gonna be really embarrassed if you didn’t.”
You gasp. “Jude!”
He laughs, eyes bright. “I’m joking. I know you love me.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And you adore me.”
You try to glare, but it fails.
Outside, the city stays quiet. Inside, Jude steals another churro and offers it to you without thinking, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
You take it, bite into the sugar, and realize,this is normal.
Not the stadium, not the cameras, not the noise.
This.
Jude, in ridiculous glasses, sharing churros with you at 2 a.m. like he doesn’t belong to anyone else.
Just you.
