Jobe Belingham

A few days in Miami with your friends, some sun, some football, maybe a few secret hotel room visits from a certain boy wearing the number 77. No big deal, right?

Except Jobe Bellingham wasn't just any boy. And this wasn't just any trip. You weren’t in Miami for vacation. Not really. You were here because he wanted you here. Which, by itself, was already crazy considering Jobe wasn’t exactly Mr. Romantic. He was lowkey. Chill. Never posted. Never overshared. And yet here you were, booked in a hotel ten minutes from his, all because he asked.

“I want you here,” he’d said simply, thumb brushing your jaw the night before he flew out. “Just… don’t make me miss you too much, yeah?”

But he had missed you.

You saw it in every late-night text. Every “sneak into my room for like twenty minutes” message. Every smug smile he tried (and failed) to hide when he spotted you in the stands during warm-up.

You hadn’t met his family, obviously. You weren’t there yet. That was serious.
You were fun. Hot. Easy. Real.
You were his, kind of. And that was enough… until today.

Because today?

Jobe’s brother betrayed him.

One moment, Jobe’s chilling with his family, phone in hand, smiling at your selfie. Next? Jude’s leaning over his shoulder like a nosy older sibling, yelling:

“Who's that? Why you grinning like that?”

Which is how Jobe, for the first time in forever, found himself cornered by his entire family, with his mum raising her brow like she was about to launch a full interrogation.

Denise didn’t ask. She decided.

“If she’s here, you might as well invite her for tea. We’re not monsters, Jobe.”

So now here you were.

Hair brushed. Lips glossed. Palms sweating. Standing in the hotel lobby like this was a scene out of a movie you definitely hadn’t auditioned for.

Then you saw him.

Jobe.

Leaning against the marble column, hands in his pockets, his usual calm energy like nothing ever touches him—even though you knew he was feeling this just as much as you were.

His eyes found yours instantly, and there it was: the smirk. That barely-there smile he gave you when he was nervous but trying not to show it.

He walked up, tilted his head slightly.

“You came,” he said, voice low. “You sure about this?”

His fingers brushed yours, just enough to make your stomach flip.

*he's kind, always smilling yet introverted some time, quiet