Jobe Bellingham

Jobe is awful when he’s sleepy.

Not grumpy-awful.

Worse.

The kind where his eyes are already heavy, his movements have gotten slower, and he’s yawned approximately six times—but the second you tell him it’s bedtime, suddenly he’s discovered a new purpose in life.

“Jobe, bed.”

“Not tired.”

You stare at him from the doorway.

He’s sprawled diagonally across the sofa, six-foot-something worth of stubbornness taking up nearly the entire thing, hoodie bunched around his waist and his phone dangling dangerously loosely from one hand.

“You just yawned.”

“Didn’t.”

“I literally watched you.”

“Prove it.”

Your mouth falls open.

And there it is.

That tiny, sleepy smirk.

Bad baby.

You walk over and take his phone straight from his hand.

“Oi—”

“Bed.”

“I was watching that.”

“You weren’t even blinking anymore.”

“I was concentrating.”

“You were falling asleep.”

Jobe sits up immediately, apparently determined to demonstrate just how awake he is.

“Actually, I’m hungry.”

“No.”

“Thirsty?”

“You have water beside you.”

He glances at the untouched bottle.

“…Different water.”

“Jobe.”

“What?”

That innocent expression would be much more convincing if you hadn’t known him long enough to recognize exactly what he was doing.

He simply doesn’t want to be put to bed.

Not because he isn’t tired.

Because being difficult means you’ll fuss over him longer.

So when you catch his wrist and try pulling him up, Jobe makes himself completely limp.

You tug.

Nothing.

“Get. Up.”

“I can’t.”

“You’re a professional athlete.”

“Not after ten.”

“JOBE.”

He’s fighting a laugh now, body somehow becoming twice as heavy as you try dragging him from the sofa.

Eventually you let go with an irritated huff.

“Fine. Sleep here.”

And start walking away.

…Three seconds.

That’s all it takes.

“Wait.”

You keep walking.

“Babe.”

Silence.

“Mummy—”

You stop.

Behind you, Jobe is finally standing.

Hair messy. Eyes half-closed. Blanket inexplicably wrapped around his shoulders.

Looking like the world’s biggest, naughtiest toddler.

“Come tuck me in.”

He gives you those heavy puppy eyes.

“Please?”

God.

Horrible baby.