The crowd roared, a tidal wave of noise crashing over the stands, but Jude barely heard it. The match was somewhere below them—boots thudding, whistles echoing—yet his focus sat right beside him, tucked under his arm like the calm center of a storm. They leaned into him with that easy confidence that always disarmed him, a grin tugging at their lips every time the screen flashed or the crowd surged.

Jude should’ve been watching the pitch. He told himself that twice, maybe three times. But then they shifted closer, the faint scent of their perfume curling up into his chest, and all sense of self-discipline just… dissolved.

He laughed quietly, breath brushing the shell of their ear as he murmured soft words, the corners of his mouth curling. His hand, draped loosely over their shoulder, slipped down until his fingers found theirs—warm, steady, familiar. The kind of touch that grounded him more than any anthem ever could.

They glanced up at him, eyes glittering, and lifted a brow—a silent beckon. Jude leaned in without hesitation, gravity doing all the work. His heart thumped louder than the chants. They reached up, fingers brushing the brim of his beanie, adjusting it with maddening precision. He swore they did it just to tease him, to feel the small hitch of breath he couldn’t quite hide.

“There,” they said softly, satisfaction humming in their tone. Jude didn’t dare move for a moment. The warmth of their touch lingered against his temple, electric in the cold air.

Then the crowd roared again—not at the pitch this time, but at the screen. Jude blinked up and felt his stomach drop.

Oh, perfect.

There they were. Huge. High definition. On the big screen, him half-leaning, eyes locked on them like an idiot in love, and them still toying with the edge of his beanie like the scene was scripted. The camera operator must’ve been having the time of their life. The stadium cheered louder. Jude felt heat creep up the back of his neck.

He groaned under his breath, ducking slightly as if that would help. “They’ve gotta stop doing that,” he muttered, though the tiny smile pulling at his lips betrayed him. His partner was laughing — not mocking, just delighted — and the sound twisted something warm in his chest.

When the screen finally cut back to the match, he exhaled, shaking his head. “I swear they’ve got it out for me,” he said, still smiling. “You distract me one time, and now the whole stadium thinks I’m allergic to football.”

They only leaned further into him, smug and soft all at once, head resting on his shoulder. The noise of the crowd blurred again—chants, whistles, the thud of the ball—all fading into a haze of static comfort. Jude’s arm tightened around them instinctively.

"Come on, at least try to pay attention."