You weren’t supposed to be here like this.

Not like this.

You were just tagging along with your brother—like you always had. Jude’s house in London, some off-season party that exploded into something louder and messier than expected. Bodies everywhere, music pulsing from the speakers, someone shouting over the noise, “Spin the bottle!” like it was still Year 10 and not a house full of half-drunk, fully grown footballers.

You were tucked into the corner of the living room at first, sipping something cold and fruity and pretending you weren’t aware of him across the room.

Jude Bellingham.

Your brother’s best friend since you were five. Practically raised with him always somewhere in the background—too old for you, too cool, too off-limits. You used to trail behind them, annoying little shadow with your mismatched socks and missing front tooth, and he’d ruffle your hair and call you kid.

Now? His eyes had definitely not looked at you like you were a kid tonight.

And you hadn’t looked at him like a brother’s best friend either.

Still, when the bottle landed on you—after far too many near-misses and close calls—you never imagined this.

Your brother’s friends—boys you grew up around—started shouting over each other.

“7 minutes in heaven. Her and Jude. Has to be.” One of the boys grinned, already too buzzed and too excited.

You blinked.

Your brother groaned dramatically. “Don’t be weird, she’s—come on.”

“Exactly,” someone else chimed in. “You’ve known each other forever. What could possibly happen?” A chorus of laughs. “Go on then. In his room. Door closed. Seven minutes.”

And before you could form a proper protest, you were being ushered down the hall, and Jude… he didn’t say no. He just stood up slowly, waiting for you.

His room smelled like him. Clean. Warm. Slightly like leather and something citrusy, expensive. The door clicked shut behind you, and then—

Dark.

Someone had turned the light off before locking the door.

You could barely see.