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They weren’t supposed to be anything serious. That had been clear from the start—never said outright, but understood in the quiet spaces between messages, in the way plans were always last-minute, in the way neither of them asked too many questions about the other’s life.
Jude had moved to Madrid, into a different rhythm, a different language, a different kind of pressure. Trent was still in Liverpool, still rooted in something familiar, something steady. Different leagues, different countries, different expectations. Whatever this was between them lived in the gaps—international breaks, late-night texts, the odd weekend that somehow aligned.
And matches like this.
Ninety minutes of pretending they were just opponents. Ninety minutes of avoiding eye contact that lingered too long, of keeping touches strictly professional even when it would’ve been so easy not to.
Madrid had won, but Jude barely remembered the final whistle. What he remembered was the brief moment afterward—Trent close, too close for post-match politeness, saying something low that didn’t quite match the cameras around them.
“Text me.”
So he had.
And now Trent was here.
Jude’s place was quiet in a way it never usually was, the city outside dimmed to a distant hum. Shoes had been kicked off somewhere near the door, clothes abandoned without care across the hallway. It had been fast at first—urgent, passionate, almost clumsy, like they were both trying to make up for something they couldn’t name.
Now it was slow. Quieter.
Real.
Trent was half-asleep beside him, stretched out on Jude’s bed like he belonged there, like he’d always belonged there. One arm was draped loosely across Jude’s waist, the weight of it grounding and dangerous all at once.
Jude stared at the ceiling, not moving, not even daring to shift in case it broke something fragile.
Watchin' you get dressed messes with my head
He hadn’t even got that far yet. Trent wasn’t dressed. Trent wasn’t leaving. Not yet.
The room still held the warmth of them, the air thick with the kind of silence that comes after too much has happened to put into words. Jude could still feel it in his skin, in the way his body hadn’t fully settled, like it was waiting for something else.
Or maybe someone.
Trent shifted slightly, pressing closer without waking, his hand tightening just a fraction where it rested against Jude’s side. It was instinctive, unconscious. That made it worse.
Or better.
Jude couldn’t decide.
Come, get back in bed, we've still got time left
He almost laughed, quietly, to himself. Because that was the thing—they always acted like they had time, like there would always be another night, another match, another excuse.
But there wasn’t, not really.
Not when Trent would be back in Liverpool tomorrow, back to his life, his team, his world that didn’t include Jude in any real way.
Jude turned his head slightly, just enough to look at him properly.
Trent’s face was softer like this, the usual sharpness gone, replaced by something easier. His hair was a mess, his breathing slow and even. There was something unfair about it—how calm he looked, how unaffected.
Or maybe that wasn’t true.
Maybe Jude just didn’t know.
That was the worst part of all of this. Not the distance, not the secrecy, not even the way they always left things unsaid.
It was the not knowing.
Aren't we way past that, playin' hard to get?
They were past it. Or at least, Jude thought they were.
This wasn’t casual in the way it had been at the beginning. It couldn’t be, not anymore. Not when Jude found himself checking his phone more than he should, not when he remembered the smallest things Trent had said weeks ago, not when nights like this stayed with him long after Trent was gone.
But Trent never said anything that made it clear. Never crossed that line.
So Jude didn’t either.
He let his hand drift, slow and careful, tracing absent patterns against Trent’s arm where it rested over him. It wasn’t enough to wake him, just enough to feel something real.
Trent made a quiet sound in his sleep, shifting again, his forehead brushing against Jude’s shoulder. It was small, thoughtless, but it sent something sharp through Jude’s chest.
Don't go, it's not the same when you're gone
That part was true in a way Jude didn’t like to admit.
When Trent left, everything felt a little off. Training, matches, even the city itself—it all carried on, exactly the same, but something underneath it shifted. Like a song slightly out of tune.
Jude exhaled slowly, careful not to move too much.
He wondered, briefly, what this looked like from the outside. If anyone knew. If anyone suspected.
Probably not.
They were careful. They had to be.
And yet, moments like this felt anything but careful.
And it's not good to be all alone
He wasn’t alone, not really. He had teammates, friends, people around him constantly.
But this was different.
This—whatever this was—only existed with Trent.
Jude glanced toward the clock on the bedside table, the numbers glowing faintly in the dark. It was late. Or early. It didn’t matter.
What mattered was that morning would come too soon.
Flights, schedules, responsibilities. Reality.
You should probably stay, probably stay a couple more days
The thought settled heavily in his chest.
He could ask.
It wouldn’t be that strange, not entirely. They had time. A couple of days, maybe. Training schedules could be worked around, excuses made.
But asking meant risking something.
Because if Trent said no—if he laughed it off, or brushed it aside, or worse, agreed without it meaning anything—
Jude didn’t think he could handle that.
So he stayed quiet.
Trent shifted again, this time waking just slightly, his eyes blinking open in the dim light. For a second, he looked disoriented, like he didn’t quite remember where he was.
Then his gaze found Jude.
There was a pause. A small one, but noticeable.
“You awake?” Trent murmured, his voice rough with sleep.
Jude nodded slightly. “Yeah.”
Trent studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable in the low light. Then, without saying anything else, he shifted closer, pressing a brief, absent kiss somewhere near Jude’s shoulder.
It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t even particularly deliberate.
But it meant something.
Or at least, Jude wanted it to.
Why don't we take some time?
Time.
That was the thing they never really had.
Or maybe they did, and they just didn’t use it properly.
Jude hesitated, then let his hand settle more firmly against Trent’s back, holding him there in a way that felt just slightly more intentional.
Trent didn’t pull away.
If anything, he leaned into it.
The silence stretched again, but it felt different now. Less uncertain. Or maybe just quieter in a way that made Jude’s thoughts louder.
He could feel the words sitting there, just under the surface. Questions he hadn’t asked. Things he hadn’t said.
What are we doing?
What is this?
Do you ever think about me when I’m not there?
But he didn’t say any of it.
Because saying it would change things.
And right now, lying here with Trent half-asleep beside him, the world narrowed down to just this room, just this moment—
Jude wasn’t ready for that.
Girl, I don't wanna say goodbye
He didn’t.
But he knew he would have to.
Eventually.
Trent’s breathing evened out again, his body relaxing fully back into sleep. Jude stayed still, letting himself feel it for as long as he could—the weight of him, the warmth, the quiet certainty of having him here.
Just for now.
Just for tonight.
He closed his eyes, not because he was tired, but because it made it easier to pretend this wasn’t temporary.
That morning wouldn’t come.
That Trent wouldn’t get dressed, wouldn’t check his phone, wouldn’t start talking about flights and schedules and everything waiting for him back home.
Come on, let me change your ticket home
Jude let out a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh but not quite.
He wouldn’t ask.
He already knew that.
But that didn’t stop him from wishing.
And as he lay there, listening to the steady rhythm of Trent’s breathing, holding onto something that didn’t quite belong to him, Jude allowed himself, just for a moment, to imagine what it would be like if he did.