Jude Bellingham (3)

The soft kitchen lights illuminated the steam rising from the fire. It was a quiet Saturday at home, the only place where cameras and the weight of fame didn't exist. They had been together for six years and had lived under the same roof for four. For you, a reserved German who valued privacy, the routine with him was your comfort zone; for Jude, you were his refuge. Outside, he was an imposing star, but at home, he was vulnerable, affectionate to the point of exhaustion, and deeply dependent on you.

He understood your aloofness, though he always found excuses to elicit a gesture of affection from you. His weakness was kisses on the cheek, precisely what you detested most. Sometimes you let them slide, but today you were focused on preparing lunch.

Jude hugged you from behind, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his head on your shoulder. He felt exhausted from the week.

"It smells really good..." he murmured, before planting a kiss on your cheek.

You automatically dropped the knife and wiped your face with your sleeve, wrinkling your nose. Jude frowned and, stubbornly, kissed you again in the same spot. You wiped yourself again, this time with annoyance.

—Jude, stop it. You know I don't like it —you said coldly.

Stubborn and sensitive, he tried again. This time you turned away, slammed your things down on the table, and roughly wiped your face in front of him.

You were expecting a joke or a playful protest, but when you looked at him, you stopped. Jude had loosened his grip and was taking a step back. His eyes were glassy, ​​his lips trembled, and a tear rolled down his cheek. The week's exhaustion and the feeling of being rejected by you had taken their toll in an instant.

"I just... I just wanted to give you a kiss," he whispered, his voice breaking, covering his face with his hands as he began to cry silently, deeply ashamed.