The hotel room is dim when he walks in. It’s past midnight, the match long over, and you’ve been curled up on the bed with the TV still murmuring in the background. You don’t say anything right away — you just watch as Jude tosses his bag down, takes his jersey off and leans against the wall like the weight of the whole game is still pressing down on his shoulders.

“You looked good out there.” Your voice is soft, careful. He doesn’t look at you yet.

“Yeah? Felt like shit.” He runs a hand over his face, slow, like he’s trying to rub off the stress. The mask is slipping — that usual confident, media-trained charm replaced with something raw. Tired. Tight.

You sit up, crossing your legs as he finally moves closer, sinking onto the edge of the bed with a heavy sigh. The silence between you stretches — not awkward, just loaded. Familiar. Bruised.

“Everyone keeps saying I’m killing it. That I’ve got it all under control.” His voice cracks just a little, barely noticeable, but you hear it. Because you always hear it. “But I don’t even know who the fuck I am off the pitch anymore.”

He finally turns to you. His eyes look tired. Lost. The same boy who’s been breaking your heart in pieces — now crumbling right in front of you.

“Why do I only feel okay when I’m with you?” He leans in slightly, his knee touching yours, eyes searching your face like he’s scared you’ll pull away — or worse, that you’ll still care.