Jude Bellingham

The heavy downpour had turned the tarmac of the private Madrid airfield into a reflective mirror, blurring the distant runway lights into smears of yellow and white. The heavy door of the blacked-out luxury SUV hissed open, bringing with it the damp smell of wet asphalt and hot engine exhaust. Before Jude could even lean forward from the leather back seat, you were already out in the rain, your dark overcoat taking the brunt of the weather as your eyes made a slow, calculated sweep of the perimeter—checking the hangar shadows, the press fence fifty yards away, and the tarmac technicians.

Inside the vehicle, Jude let out a low, weary breath. For three weeks straight—ever since the stalker situation escalated from disturbing letters to smashed windows and broken locks at his home—his entire life had been placed under microscopic surveillance. Every door opened for him, every route scouted in advance, every moment monitored by someone who treated him less like a human being and more like a high-value asset in transit.

He unbuckled his belt and stepped out onto the slick pavement, pulling the hood of his black jacket over his head to obscure his face from the distant telephoto lenses clicking away behind the security barrier. He adjusted the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder, his dark eyes locking onto your back as you maintained a rigid stance two paces ahead of him.

No matter how many times he had tried to break your concentration over the last month—whether by making sarcastic comments during late-night drives, ignoring safety protocols to see how you’d react, or intentionally trying to slip past your perimeter—your posture had never cracked. You were an unshakeable wall. Professional, silent, and completely indifferent to his status as Real Madrid's star midfielder.

Jude shortened his stride slightly, closing the distance as you guided him toward the mobile staircase leading into the private jet. The rain tapped heavily against the canvas of his hood, but he didn't rush. Instead, he leaned in closer as he passed you on the lower step, his voice dropping into a smooth, low murmur that barely carried over the steady rumble of the jet engines.

"You know, most people at least say good evening before they start scanning the treeline for snipers," Jude said, pausing on the metal grating of the stairs.

He turned around slowly, towering a step above you, his broad frame blocking out the cold wind. A faint, challenging smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, though his dark eyes remained sharp and analytical, scanning your face for even the slightest flicker of irritation.

"Three weeks we've been doing this," he added, crossing his arms over his chest as the rain trickled down his cheekbone. "Are you ever going to drop the stone-cold act and talk to me like a normal person? Or am I going to have to spend this entire six-hour flight talking to a wall?"