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Jude Bellingham was many things. Calm. Confident. Composed.
But he was not, definitely not, jealous.
At least, that’s what he told himself every time Gavi shoved someone on the pitch and Jude had to look away before his brain short-circuited. Every time Gavi rolled his eyes and cursed in that raspy, Catalan growl. Every time Gavi stood just a little too close in post-match tunnels, pink-cheeked and twitchy like he didn’t know what to do with all that energy inside him.
Jude had time, he’d thought. Time to figure this out. Whatever this was.
Until Valverde opened his goddamn mouth.
They were in the mixed zone, post-Clásico. Madrid had won. Barely. Tensions had been high, tempers higher. Gavi had gotten a yellow for something that honestly should’ve been a straight red. Jude couldn’t stop watching the replay in his mind—Gavi, storming across the pitch, shoving Dani Ceballos, teeth bared, hands twitching like he wanted to bite.
And then Valverde laughed.
“Gavi is really hot when he’s angry, no?”
He said it like it was nothing. Like it was just a comment. A joke. One guy to another.
Jude froze mid-step, one boot halfway off. “What?”
Valverde chuckled, towel around his neck, wiping sweat from his neck. “I’m just saying. He’s got that… angry little gremlin vibe. Some people are into that.”
Jude’s heart stopped. Then started again. Faster.
“Did you just—”
Valverde raised an eyebrow. “You disagree?”
Jude opened his mouth. Closed it. “No. I mean. I just didn’t think you… noticed.”
Valverde shrugged, still grinning. “He’s not hard to notice.”
Jude walked away before he said something deeply unprofessional and probably headline-worthy.
The jealousy came in waves.
He didn’t sleep that night.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Gavi’s face, sweaty and flushed, jaw clenched in fury. He saw the way Gavi slammed his fist against the dugout. The way his shirt clung to him. The sharp line of his neck.
He saw Valverde seeing it too.
And that was the problem.
Because up until now, Jude thought he was the only one. The only one who saw beauty in the chaos. Who watched Gavi storm the pitch like a human thundercloud and thought, God, you’re perfect.
He thought he had time.
Time to sort out the way his stomach flipped when Gavi smiled (rare) or how his throat got tight when Gavi got shoved and didn’t back down (always). Time to maybe ask him for coffee after a Spain camp, to brush their fingers together and say something stupid in Spanish that made Gavi roll his eyes—but not move away.
But now Valverde had noticed.
And that meant other people might too.
Jude wasn’t ready for that.
He needed to do something. Now.
The next Spain camp arrived like a war drum in Jude’s chest.
He saw Gavi at check-in, hood up, AirPods in, arms crossed like he didn’t trust anyone in the whole damn world.
Jude swallowed hard.
“Hey,” he said, walking over, casually, like he wasn’t falling apart inside. “Nice to see you.”
Gavi looked up. Nodded once. “Mm.”
Great start.
“You uh… you recovered from the Clásico rage?”
Gavi snorted. “That wasn’t rage.”
Jude blinked. “It wasn’t?”
Gavi glanced at him, sharp and sideways. “No. You should see me when I’m actually mad.”
Jude nearly swallowed his tongue.
“Right,” he said, too quickly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
They were roommates that night—blessing from the coaching staff or a cruel twist of fate, Jude couldn’t tell.
Gavi flopped onto his bed and kicked off his trainers with a grunt. “You’re being weird,” he said after five minutes of silence.
Jude looked up from tying his boots for the third time. “What?”
“You’re quiet. You’re never quiet.”
“I’m thinking.”
“About what?”
You, he thought.
Instead, he said: “Just football.”
“Bullshit,” Gavi muttered, and rolled over, face to the wall.
Jude stared at his back.
Now or never.
“You know Fede said you’re hot when you’re angry?”
There was a long silence.
Gavi rolled back over, brow furrowed. “Valverde?”
“Yeah.”
He blinked. “Okay?”
Jude’s jaw clenched. “Does that—does that bother you?”
Gavi narrowed his eyes. “Why would it?”
“I don’t know,” Jude said, frustrated now, “maybe because it sounds like he’s into you?”
Gavi smirked, just a little. “Are you jealous?”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Maybe.”
“…Shut up.”
Gavi sat up. “You are jealous.”
Jude groaned. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like it’s funny.”
Gavi tilted his head. “You’re cute when you’re mad.”
Jude choked. “I—what?”
“I said,” Gavi repeated, standing now, arms crossed like a dare, “you’re cute. When you’re mad. You get all defensive and red in the face.”
“I’m not—”
“Red,” Gavi confirmed, poking his cheek, “Here.”
Jude grabbed his wrist. “I swear to God—”
But he didn’t finish.
Because Gavi was looking at him like he knew. Like he’d always known. And his smirk faded into something softer.
“You think you’re the only one who’s been figuring this out?” Gavi asked.
Jude’s breath caught. “What?”
Gavi shrugged. “I’m not stupid. And you’re not subtle. You stare at me like I’m a goal you’re scared to take.”
Jude swallowed hard. “Maybe I am.”
“Well,” Gavi murmured, stepping close, “better shoot before someone else does.”
Jude didn’t think.
He kissed him.
And this time, Gavi didn’t shove. Didn’t growl. He just grabbed the front of Jude’s hoodie and pulled him in harder.
Possessive. Hot. Angry.
Perfect.
Valverde made another joke about Gavi three days later.
Jude just smiled. “Too late, mate.”
And Gavi?
He stood beside him, bruised-kneed and wild-eyed, and smirked like hell itself.
Jude had won.
And he wasn’t letting go.