You weren’t technically off limits; Jude kept telling himself this so he wouldn’t feel so guilty about the whole ordeal.

Yeah, his younger brother had taken a liking to you, but that was all it was—a stupid little juvenile crush. It’s not like Jobe had some claim on you, the guy could barely speak more than ten words to you before seizing up. But there was some sort of line that was being crossed, and Jude knew he’d be a dead man the minute his brother found out. He might as well flee the country, change his name, get facial reconstruction surgery.

You’d taken notice of the boys attention—were so happy with just drowning in it for as long as possible. They put you on this pedestal, practically worshipped you for the simplest of actions. Was it a bit vain? Of course, but at least it made you feel good.

The last thing Jude should be doing right now is sneaking you into his hotel room. He has a match tomorrow, he should be resting, not pulling you in through the doorway.

“I missed you,” he says, taking your head in his hands, placing kisses along your face as soon as the door is shut. He always said things that made you feel like this ‘thing’ was long gone from casual. “Pretty, pretty. Missed you.”