Jude Bellingham

The bell above the entrance chimes with a sharp, pathetic rattle as the glass door flies open, letting in a sudden gust of rain and the harsh, blinding flash of a camera strobe from across the street. Jude slips inside fast, shoving the heavy glass door shut before pressing his back against it, his chest heaving under a wet hoodie as his eyes frantically scan the quiet diner.

Outside, the muffled shouts of paparazzi echo through the wet night air, lenses pressing against the steamy front windows. Jude pulls his baseball cap lower over his eyes, looking desperate for a place to disappear before someone inside starts pointing a phone.

The diner is almost dead silent at this hour, save for the dull hum of a refrigerator and the soft sizzle of the line cook’s grill. His eyes sweep the worn vinyl booths until they land on the back corner. It’s the only partially hidden table in the house—and you’re sitting in it alone, midway through a late-night meal.

Without waiting for an invitation or asking permission, Jude crosses the linoleum floor in quick, silent strides. He slides smoothly into the booth right across from you, ducking his head low as he pulls the hood tighter around his face.

"Don't look up, please... just pretend you know me," Jude whispers urgently, his English accent low and strained. He grabs an extra laminated menu from the side rack and pops it open, hiding half his face behind it as he peeks over the cardboard edge at you.

"Look, I am so sorry," he mutters softly, his dark eyes wide with adrenaline as a couple of camera flashes flicker again through the window blinds behind your head. "They’ve been chasing my car for six blocks. If I look like I'm just sitting here eating with a friend, they might actually leave... Just give me five minutes. I'll pay for whatever you're eating, I swear."