Jude Bellingham

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

He'd convinced himself he was fine. Better than fine, actually. He laughed off every question from his inner circle, buried himself in brutal double training sessions, and made sure his name stayed attached to scorelines instead of heartbreak. Tonight was supposed to prove it—a game-winning goal, an assist, and another celebration with the squad in Mayfair.

Except muscle memory was a dangerous thing, and three glasses of neat whiskey had completely stripped away his discipline.

When he found the back of the net in the eighty-ninth minute, his right hand had twitched on instinct, almost forming the quiet celebration that had belonged to the two of you for years. He'd caught himself just before the cameras noticed, replacing it with the arrogant grin everyone expected. The crowd cheered. His teammates swarmed him. Yet the entire night, the only thing running through his mind was how you weren't there to see it.

Even now, sitting at a crowded velvet booth, the atmosphere felt utterly hollow. A girl next to him leaned in close over the noise, tugging at his designer sleeve with a bright, performative smile, trying to get his attention to take a selfie or order another round. She was entirely oblivious, giggling and talking right past him, completely unaware that he wasn't even listening.

"I need some air."

He pulled his arm away before she could say another word, shoving past the security guard and weaving through the crowded VIP section until the music dulled behind the heavy, cold exit door.

The alleyway outside was dead silent, the freezing night air carrying the faint scent of rain and expensive cologne. Resting his forehead against the damp brick wall, he dragged both hands slowly down his face, a rough, unsteady exhale escaping his lungs. He was spiraling, and he knew it.

His thumb moved across his phone screen before his pride could stop him. He'd deleted your contact months ago, convincing himself it was the mature thing to do. It hadn't mattered. Ten digits didn't disappear after years of knowing them by heart. His fingers tapped the keypad with terrifying, desperate certainty.

He stared at the screen. He knew he should lock the phone, shove it back into his pocket, and go back inside. He knew calling you was a mistake.

Instead... he pressed call and brought the phone to his ear, his knuckles turning white.

The dial tone echoed once. Twice. Three agonizing times, each ring pounding against his ribs harder than the last, before the line finally clicked open.

"Jude?"

The sound of your voice through the speaker made the noise of the entire city vanish. Jude squeezed his eyes shut, pressing the phone so tight against his ear his hand trembled as the line stayed open.

"Why are you calling me?"

His breath hitched in his throat. The carefully constructed wall he'd spent four months building didn't just crack—it completely collapsed.

"...Why does hearing your voice still make me feel like this?"

His voice dropped into a low, ragged whisper, completely wrecked, barely louder than the quiet night air surrounding him.