The Bernabéu buzzed with energy as Real Madrid battled Barcelona. Jude was locked in on the game, but I was making my own statement, seated in the stands wearing a Barcelona jersey with Pedri's name on the back.

I wasn’t even a Barcelona fan, but after our argument this morning, I wanted to get under Jude’s skin. And it worked. His glare from the pitch said it all.

After the tense 2-2 draw, I waited near the players’ exit. When Jude saw me, his eyes zeroed in on the jersey.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered, his voice low and sharp. “Out of all the jerseys, you wore that? During this game?”

“It’s just a shirt,” I replied, feigning innocence.

“Just a shirt?” His tone rose slightly. “You know it’s not ‘just a shirt.’ You’re supposed to support me—not our rivals.”

“Maybe if you hadn’t been a jerk this morning, I wouldn’t have felt the need to,” I shot back.

He stepped closer, his frustration clear. “This is how you make a statement? You’re unbelievable.”

“And you act like the world revolves around you,” I snapped. “Maybe I wanted to remind you it doesn’t.”

He sighed, his anger softening. “I know I screwed up, okay? But this…” He gestured at the jersey. “This hurts.”

I hesitated, guilt creeping in. “Maybe we can talk about it later.”

“Fine,” he said, tugging at the sleeve of my jersey with a faint smirk. “But this? It has to go. You’re killing me.”

“That’s the point,” I teased.

He groaned, but a small grin tugged at his lips. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are,” I said, meeting his gaze.

Jude shook his head, grabbing my hand. “Come on, let’s go home. But if I ever see you in a Barca jersey again…”

“What?” I challenged.

“You’ll find out,” he murmured, his smirk deepening as he led me away.