Jude Bellingham

The deafening bass of the VIP lounge thrummed right through the soles of his shoes, but Jude couldn't feel a single beat. Four months. Sixteen long weeks since the final, suffocating conversation in his kitchen that ended everything, and two full months of complete, unbroken radio silence.

He’d convinced himself he was completely fine. Better than fine, actually. He spent weeks laughing off questions from his inner circle, burying himself in brutal double-session trainings, and ensuring his name stayed strictly attached to scorelines instead of lingering heartbreak. Tonight was supposed to be the ultimate proof that he’d moved on—a clinical assist, a game-winning goal, and a celebratory night out with the squad in Mayfair.

Except muscle memory was a dangerous thing.

When he scored in the eighty-ninth minute, his right hand had instinctively twitched, nearly forming the private, quiet celebration gesture that had belonged strictly to the two of you for years. He’d caught himself just in time, masking the slip-up with a sharp, arrogant grin for the cameras, but the damage was already done. The ghost of your presence had slipped right back into his head.

Even now, sitting in a dimly lit velvet booth with a stunning brunette running her manicured nails down the nape of his neck, his mind felt entirely numb. She leaned in, pressing her lips softly against the warm skin of his jaw, expecting him to turn around and finish what she started.

He didn't move. He felt nothing.

A sudden, heavy wave of nausea hit him—not from the expensive tequila lingering on his tongue, but from the realization that no matter who sat on his lap, it wasn't you. It was never going to be you.

"I need some air," Jude muttered, pulling away abruptly before the girl could even protest. He didn't wait for her response, pushing his broad frame through the crowded VIP section and ducking into the quiet, narrow corridor near the back exits.

The air out here was cool, smelling faintly of citrus polish and expensive cologne. He leaned his broad back against the cold wall, dragging both hands down his face with a slow, raspy exhale that shook his heavy chest.

His fingers moved before his brain could rationalize the mistake. He’d scrubbed your contact from his phone months ago in a bitter attempt to play mature, but ten digits didn't just vanish from a mind that had dialed them for years. His thumb moved over the glass in a blur, entering the sequence with terrifying precision.

He stared at the screen. He knew he should lock the phone. He knew he should walk back out to the booth, smile for the paparazzi, and pretend the past was dead.

He pressed call instead.

The dial tone echoed once. Twice. Three agonizing times while his pulse hammered against his ribs like a sprinter at the blocks. Then, the line clicked open.

The muffled hum of the club faded into absolute insignificance as your soft, sleepy voice cut through the receiver, heavy with confusion at two in the morning.

"Jude?"

A thick silence stretched across the line. He squeezed his eyes shut, his jaw clenching so hard his teeth physically ached as he pressed the speaker closer to his ear.

"What’s wrong? Are you okay, Jude?"

Jude swallowed hard, his breathing heavy and uneven against the mic as the last layer of his arrogant pride crumbled to dust.

"...Why does hearing your voice still make me feel like this?" he whispered, his tone dropping into a low, raw gravel that sounded completely undone.