odetooddity-logs

[odetooddity-logs]

tabloids and tears (2) | jude bellingham

pairing: jude bellingham x physiotherapist! reader, trent alexander arnold x physiotherapist! reader

word count: 4.6k

summary: when a professional duty forces you to work closely with jude bellingham, a man you've always known through charged glances and the quiet tension of intimately distant work interactions, the lines between professional and personal blur, hinting at a connection that will challenge everything you thought you knew.

genre: romance, drama, slow-burn, frustrating misunderstandings

read part 1 here

jude notices the difference immediately.

trent walks into the training facility alone.

no voice trailing beside him, no laugh echoing down the hall.

you’re already in the physio room, head down, papers open. you don’t glance up when trent passes the doorway.

and trent? he doesn’t say a word to you.

no grin. no shoulder bump. no “morning, trouble.”

jude’s eyebrows shoot up before he can help it.

he’s grinning by the time he laces his boots. “he finally asked, didn’t he,” jude mutters under his breath, like he just cracked the code.

he jogs past trent in the hall and slaps his back once. trent just grunts. keeps walking. jaw tight.

interesting. very interesting.

after training, jude lingers longer than usual. ice bath. shower. towel slung around his neck.

you’re still organizing wraps when he steps into the physio room. your back’s to him, hands moving efficiently over labeled drawers.

“you’re always here,” he says casually.

you glance over your shoulder. “you’re always hurt.”

he snorts.

you turn fully now, eyebrows raised, waiting for the real reason.

and he gives it to you.

with that smug half-smile you remember. the one that always meant trouble. “i’m assuming,” he starts, “he asked you last night.”

you blink. slowly. “why do you care?”

he shrugs. leans his weight into the doorframe. “just curious.”

you narrow your eyes. “you’re not curious.”

he smirks. “alright. i’m nosy.”

you sigh. pick up a box of bandages, start refolding the edges just to do something with your hands. “yeah,” you say finally. “you’re right.”

his smile stretches wider. “knew it.” and then, he tilts his head, eyes sharp now. “and i know what happened next.”

you look up. lips parting, eyes narrowing. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

jude holds your gaze. doesn’t flinch. “just saying. he’s not exactly walking like a man who got a yes.”

you exhale sharply. not quite a scoff. but it stings. “wow,” you say. “you really think you know everything.”

“no,” he says. “not everything. just you.”

you freeze.

he steps closer now, towel draped low around his neck, shirt still damp from the shower. “you’re scared,” he says, voice lower. “of being seen. of being known. you’ve always been like that.”

“you don’t know anything about me,” you snap, too quick.

“don’t i?” he replies, tilting his head. “i was there, remember? when you flinched every time i got too close. when you’d shut down the second i started to care.”

“and yet here you are,” you say, voice cold now. “still needing to be part of something that never belonged to you.”

his mouth twitches.

you step back. not because you’re afraid but because you don’t want him to see what’s beneath your voice. the flicker of guilt. or sadness. or whatever this is. “if you’re trying to gloat,” you say tightly, “find someone else. i don’t owe you closure.”

he doesn’t move. just watches you.

and it hits you; how much he’s holding back.

he’s still jealous. still angry. still wants something.

but you? you don’t. not anymore.

so you pick up your clipboard. walk past him without another word.

and jude-

jude stays there.

in the middle of the physio room. towel damp. mouth parted. expression cracked open.

you don’t look back.

—

jude finds trent in the gym an hour after the session ends.

he’s shirtless, drenched in sweat, rhythmically throwing punches into a padded column. jab, cross, jab. reset.

jude leans on the wall, watching. “you training for a fight I don’t know about?”

trent doesn’t look at him. “nah.”

“trying to punch feelings away?”

trent exhales through his nose. jab. jab.

“got a name for this emotion or just vibes?” jude adds, a little too loud.

trent finally stills. turns. sweat dripping down his temple, chest heaving. he wipes his brow with a towel and looks at jude, really looks.

“you here to say something or just be annoying?”

“bit of both,” jude says, forcing a grin.

trent raises an eyebrow, waiting.

jude hesitates. leans forward, palms on his knees, looking at the floor like the words might form easier if he doesn’t look anyone in the eye. “just-” he clears his throat. “it’s weird seeing you two not flirting.”

trent snorts. “we weren’t flirting.”

“oh please,” jude mutters. “you were two seconds from naming your future kids last week.”

trent tosses the towel onto the bench and grabs his water bottle.

“she say anything to you?” jude asks. “about last night?”

trent takes a long sip. wipes his mouth. “you really want to know?”

“depends,” jude says. “was it tragic?”

trent raises his head. his voice is level. calm. “she said no.”

jude winces. not visibly, not out loud, but enough for something in his chest to twitch. “yeah,” he says. “figured.”

trent steps closer. not threatening. just present. his voice stays steady, but quieter. “and you’re enjoying this. huh?”

jude blinks. “what?”

“this,” trent says. “whatever it is you’re doing. poking around like you’re still part of something.”

jude scoffs. “I’m not doing anything.”

“you’re in her space.”

“it’s my space too.”

trent doesn’t flinch. “not the way you use it.”

jude clenches his jaw.

trent keeps going. “you’re trying to stay close to something you lost before you even had it. and it’s sad, bro.”

jude laughs once, bitter. “you think i care that much?”

trent shrugs. “you act like you don’t. but you’re obsessed.”

jude’s mouth opens. shuts again.

trent tosses the water bottle aside, shakes out his arms. “you never respected what she wanted. not really.”

“oh, and you do?”

“i listened when she said no,” trent says simply. “you just pushed until she broke.”

jude’s hands flex at his sides. his voice comes low. sharp. “you don’t get it.”

trent raises an eyebrow. “don’t I?”

“she treated me like i was toxic,” jude snaps. “like i was something she had to manage, not someone she could care about.”

trent’s eyes narrow. “maybe because you were. you chased her while dating someone else. you flirted in the hallways. you got mad when she didn’t flirt back.”

jude goes still.

trent takes a breath. softens just slightly. “she didn’t owe you anything, man.”

silence. jude looks away, jaw twitching.

trent watches him. his voice gentler now. “you ever just… accept something wasn’t meant for you?”

jude doesn’t answer. he turns and leaves without another word.

but the silence follows him all the way down the corridor.

you’re laughing with one of the staff when jude walks in.

not a big laugh. not flirtatious. just a low, calm kind of laugh, the kind that belongs to people who sleep well at night, who aren’t haunted by anything.

you look good. not in a flashy way. in a whole way. your hair’s pinned back. your polo sleeves are rolled. there’s a pen behind your ear and a clipboard balanced on your hip.

you look like someone who knows who they are.

and jude? jude feels like someone who hasn’t slept in days. even though he did. he keeps walking. pretends not to see you. pretends it doesn’t burn.

—

trent’s back to being… fine.

you and him are polite now. still warm. not glowing, not magnetic, but steady.

he jokes sometimes. you respond lightly. he holds the door open. you say thanks.

there’s no flirting. no tension. and somehow, that makes it worse.

jude watches you both during lunch breaks.

how you sit next to each other without touching. how you speak in short, calm sentences. how you make eye contact and nothing else happens.

you shut trent down and he still respects you.

he still likes you.

and you? you still treat him like a human being.

but with jude; it’s different. you don’t look at him. you don’t speak unless you have to. and when you do, it’s clinical.

“hamstring again?”

“don’t fidget.”

“does this hurt?”

no smile. no softness. just him. under your hands.

and still somehow, out of reach.

he tries. once.

at the ice bath. he slides into the tub beside you while you’re organizing timers and muscle tape on the cart. “you’re really good at pretending i don’t exist,” he says lightly.

you don’t look up. “you’re really good at giving me reasons to.”

he grins. it falters slightly. “you’re still mad at me,” he says, mock-pouting.

you sigh. don’t respond.

he leans back in the tub, watching you from the corner of his eye. “you forgave trent. didn’t even take a week.”

you pause. “trent never disrespected me.”

ouch.

jude opens his mouth. shuts it. then says, “so i’m unforgivable?”

“no,” you say, soft and even. “you’re just not safe.”

and that’s it. you turn to walk away. and jude stares at the tiled wall like it just punched him.

he doesn’t know when it happens.

but it happens.

he switches gears. if he can’t win you over, he’ll just get under your skin.

starts showing up two minutes earlier than you. sits in your chair. touches your pens. moves your notes.

“thought we shared,” he says when you glare.

starts calling you by your last name. like you’re just another staff member.

“ey, doc. got time for me today or still morally opposed?”

starts pointing out everything.

“you always scribble your R’s like that?”

“you organize tapes like you’re defusing bombs.”

“why do you always look at me like i kicked your cat?”

you ignore him. for the most part. but sometimes, you sigh. or roll your eyes. or tell him, deadpan, “maybe find someone else to bother today.”

and for jude,

that’s a win.

because it’s still attention.

—

trent corners him one evening.

quietly.

locker room emptying out.

“you good?”

jude shrugs, towel around his neck.

“why wouldn’t I be?”

trent looks at him for a long second. “you’ve got a weird way of dealing with rejection.”

jude’s smile sharpens. “wasn’t me who got rejected, remember?”

trent doesn’t laugh. “she said no to both of us, mate. but i ook it like a man.”

jude turns away. “yeah, well. good for you.”

trent’s voice stays calm. “you’re making her life harder.”

and jude pauses –just half a breath– before tossing back,

“funny. you’re not the one she avoids.”

he leaves before trent can answer.

but the guilt follows him home anyway.

the gym’s nearly empty.

just the soft clink of weights and hum of treadmills somewhere in the back.

you’re sitting cross-legged on the stretching mat, organizing resistance bands, when trent walks in, fresh off a late-morning session, hoodie half-zipped, hair still damp from the shower.

“you’ve turned into a ghost,” he says as he approaches.

you look up. smile gently. “maybe you stopped noticing.”

he huffs a quiet laugh and sinks to the mat beside you, legs outstretched.

“heard about the campaign shoot,” you say, glancing over. “that’s big.”

he shrugs, but he’s grinning. “not as big as they made it seem. mostly standing around and getting told to look intense.”

“and you looked very intense,” you deadpan.

trent smirks. “it’s the brows.”

“and the girlfriend,” you add, tossing the last band into place.

his brows shoot up.

“you’ve seen?”

“i have eyes. and an internet connection.”

he tilts his head. “jealous?”

you roll your eyes with a grin. “deeply.”

he snorts.

“she’s really gorgeous,” you say, sincerity blooming through your voice. “like, undeniably.”

trent exhales, gaze dropping for a second. “yeah. she is.”

you shift your posture, elbows on your knees, looking straight at him.

“you always wanted that, didn’t you?”

your voice is calm. no edge to it. just… observant. knowing.

“someone you could show off. stand beside. post. say: she’s mine.”

trent meets your gaze. doesn’t flinch.

“yeah,” he says.

you nod once.

then smile; soft, proud, fond.

“there’s nothing wrong with that, you know.”

he breathes out slowly. “you sure?”

“yeah,” you say. “you’re amazing. you deserve someone who lights you up.”

and he looks at you like he’s grateful you said that.

grateful you meant it.

“you know you’re part of my family now, right?” he says suddenly.

you blink. “what?”

trent’s smile grows. “you’re stuck with me. we’ve trauma-bonded.”

you laugh, chest warm.

“oh no.”

“oh yes,” he says. “you’ll be at the cookouts.”

“you don’t even cook.”

“she does,” he says, gesturing vaguely to the universe. “i’ll provide playlist and vibes.”

you shake your head, still smiling. the kind of smile that lives in your eyes too.

and in the corner of the room,

by the squat rack

jude sees it all.

he wasn’t listening at first.

but your laugh pulled his gaze.

your posture. your ease. the way you looked at trent like you respected him. like he mattered. like he hadn’t just been a boy you once turned down, but someone you trusted to still matter.

and trent?

he’s looking at you like you’re his best what-if.

not bitter. not broken.

just quietly grateful he ever got close.

jude shifts his grip on the barbell.

because this?

this is what he’s been chasing with you.

not a kiss, yet. not a yes, yet.

just… this.

a quiet, grown warmth.

a look. a seat beside you. a laugh that belongs only to him.

and somehow, trent gets it.

without even having you.

jude clenches his jaw.

finishes the set.

too fast.

too much.

you glance over for just a second, like you felt the air shift.

he looks away first.

what he doesn’t know is:

when he turned his head,

you kept watching.

and you realized something you weren’t ready to admit yesterday.

you want him more than you ever wanted trent.

and it’s starting to scare you.

you’re washing your hair when the buzzer goes off.

at first, you freeze.

it’s nearly midnight.

nobody visits at this hour. no deliveries. no emergencies.

you check your phone. no messages.

walk barefoot to the intercom.

the voice on the other end is low. shaky.

“it’s me.”

you blink.

“jude?”

a pause.

“can you- can you open the door?”

your heart kicks up, once.

“you’re at my flat?”

“yeah.”

you hesitate. everything in your body says don’t.

but curiosity’s always been your weakest virtue.

when you open your door, you expect-

you don’t even know what you expect.

not this.

he’s standing there, hands fisted in the pockets of his hoodie, eyes dark, cheeks flushed, jaw set like he’s spent the last twenty minutes arguing with the wind.

you fold your arms. lean against the frame.

“how do you even have my address?”

he shrugs. “i… heard you mention it once.”

“to who?”

“does it matter?”

you raise an eyebrow. “yes, actually. it’s giving ‘stalker alert.’”

he scoffs. “please. you think i’d go that far just to talk to you?”

“you are at my door at around 23”

“yeah,” he snaps, stepping forward, “because you won’t talk to me anywhere else.”

you hold your ground. “maybe I don’t want to talk to you.”

“then why’d you open the door?”

you inhale.

quiet.

steady.

“i was curious,” you say. “not desperate.”

he flinches.

just a fraction.

and then, like he can’t help it,

he bursts.

“what the fuck is your problem with me?”

you blink.

he’s flushed now. fully.

shoulders tense, chest rising like he sprinted here instead of walking.

“seriously,” he says. “you treat me like i kicked your dog, spat in your food, burned your house down-”

“you’re dramatic.”

“you’re impossible!” he shouts. “you’re cold, you’re condescending, and you act like you’re so fucking above it all-”

“I’m not above it,” you cut in, sharp.

“I’m just done.”

that shuts him up for a second.

“done with what?” he asks, quieter.

you exhale. press your fingers to your temple.

“done playing this game where you bother me until i react. done pretending like we ever had something. done carrying the weight of your need for attention.”

he steps inside the doorway now, uninvited.

but you don’t stop him.

“you think I want attention?�� he hisses.

“yes,” you say. “that’s exactly what you want.”

he laughs. dry. bitter.

like it hurts.

“and you don’t? is that what you tell yourself when you ice me out in front of the whole team? when you act like i don’t exist but still watch me out of the corner of your eye?”

you still.

he steps closer.

“you think I don’t see it?”

his voice drops.

“you’re not indifferent. you’re punishing me.”

your breath catches.

but you don’t move.

“you wanted a reaction?” you say. “this is it.”

“you don’t even like trent,” he says suddenly. “not the way you liked me.”

you laugh once, but it’s empty.

“maybe i liked the version of you I thought existed.”

his jaw clenches.

you see it in the twitch of his neck.

in the way his fists tighten in his hoodie.

he’s seething.

but more than that — he’s wounded.

“so what,” he mutters, voice thick now. “i’m just your mistake?”

you stare at him.

“no,” you say. “you’re my lesson.”

he stares at you like you slapped him.

and for a second, just one, you regret it.

but then he exhales, dragging his hands down his face. pacing back toward your kitchen counter, then stopping, then turning.

he’s glowing with frustration.

flushed. wild-eyed. alive.

“you’re unbelievable,” he says.

“you’re intrusive.”

“you’re impossible to please.”

“you don’t try to please me.”

“oh my god-” he practically groans, dragging his fingers through his hair.

then-

“why did you open the door?” he says again, this time quieter.

“if i’m all those things. why are we having this conversation?”

you stare at him.

and you say nothing.

because you don’t know the answer.

not one you’re willing to admit out loud.

and for the first time, jude sees it.

sees the hesitation. the softness. the crack.

his breath catches.

he steps forward.

“i don’t want to be your enemy,” he says.

“but i'll be whatever gets me closest to you.”

your heart thunders.

you open your mouth.

then close it.

he steps further into the flat.

you don’t stop him.

the door clicks shut behind him.

he reaches back, locks it as if it's reflex.

your eyebrows raise slightly.

he shrugs. “figured we weren’t done.”

you tilt your head toward the couch. “sit.”

he doesn’t move at first.

just watches you from across the room, hoodie loose, slightly damp from sweat or just chaos.

then

“you’re gonna offer me tea or something?”

you blink.

“actually, yes.”

“seriously?”

you start walking toward the kitchen. “what else do people drink after a midnight screaming match?”

“i don’t know,” he mutters, following. “vodka?”

you open the cabinet.

“you’re a footballer. i’m not ruining your career over my boiling kettle.”

he snorts. “you think tea is the problem?”

you shoot him a look.

dry. tired. lingering heat beneath it.

he’s standing too close.

not on purpose. not with intention.

but close enough that your shoulder brushes his when you reach for mugs.

“want green or chamomile?”

“you’re taking a piss.”

you sigh. “then what do you want, jude?”

silence.

he leans against the fridge.

his eyes scan the counter.

the mugs. your fingers on the lid of the sugar jar.

and then

deadpan:

“you got milk?”

you pause.

“what?”

“like. milk. to drink.”

you turn slowly.

stare at him.

“what the actual fuck.”

he shrugs. “i don’t know. you piss me off.”

you blink.

step closer.

hands still on the countertop.

“and what are you going to do about it?”

his nostrils flare slightly.

you raise your chin.

“seriously. i piss you off? you piss me off. and neither of us can do anything about it.”

he takes a step forward.

your pulse spikes.

you don’t move.

he’s inches away now.

the fridge humming softly behind him. the overhead light catching the sharp angle of his jaw.

“sometimes I just wanna-”

his voice breaks.

he shakes his head. “fuck, i don’t even know.”

“you just want to watch?” you say, mocking, brows lifted.

his lips twitch.

his eyes drag down your face.

“no,” he says. “not watch.”

your breath catches.

your spine stiffens.

“then what, jude?”

he doesn’t answer.

but the air changes.

you feel it.

like the shift before a storm.

pressure rising. everything about to snap.

he leans in. just slightly.

and you,

you don’t back away.

his hand twitches at his side.

your fingers tighten on the countertop.

“say it,” you whisper.

“you’ll throw it back at me.”

“maybe,” you say. “but i’ll still listen.”

he exhales.

his voice low. raw.

“sometimes i just want to shut you up.”

your eyes flicker.

“and sometimes,” you say slowly, “i want to see if you ever actually mean anything you say.”

and then it happens.

not sweet.

not slow.

not delicate.

it’s sudden. it’s harsh.

it’s desperate.

his mouth crashes into yours like he’s been holding back for months.

your teeth clash. your hands find his hoodie, fists twisting the fabric.

he groans against your mouth, low and guttural, like he can’t believe this is happening, like he’s already addicted to it.

you gasp, his hands finding your waist, pulling you flush against him.

your fingers push into his scalp, tugging just enough of his perfectly trimmed hair to make him curse into your mouth.

it’s not graceful. it’s needy.

like you both have something to prove.

your back hits the counter.

his thigh slots between yours.

you bite his lip, not too hard, just enough to make him hiss.

when he pulls back, both of you are panting.

his forehead rests against yours.

his hand still grips your hip like you might disappear if he lets go.

“you’re…” he starts, voice wrecked.

“fucking-”

“i know,” you whisper.

your fingers trail down his chest, settling on the hem of his hoodie.

“you too.”

silence.

his thumb brushes your jaw, softer now.

you don’t speak.

there’s nothing left to say..

the only sound is the hum of the fridge.

the distant tick of the clock on your wall.

your breathing , still not steady. still not calm.

you’re both still leaning against the kitchen counter.

his chest brushing yours every time he exhales.

his eyes are on you.

like he doesn’t know what to say.

like he doesn’t want to say anything wrong.

you swallow.

pull back slightly.

he lets you go.

but his hands linger at your sides.

your voice is quiet.

“we should… stop. maybe.”

his brows pull together.

“do you want to?”

you pause.

search his face.

“…no.”

he doesn’t move.

just watches you.

still breathing hard.

you shake your head once, more to yourself than him.

“this feels like walking toward the edge of a mountain,” you murmur.

he tilts his head. “what?”

you glance up at him.

eyes wide. vulnerable.

“you ever get so close to something that it scares the hell out of you? like, you’re at the edge and you could fall? and you know it’s gonna be deep. and dark. and cold. and you don’t know if you’re ready.”

he’s quiet for a second.

then:

“and what am i?”

you shrug, a small smile twitching at your lips.

he exhales, gaze dropping to your mouth for just a beat.

“i don’t want you to jump alone.”

“i guess…” you whisper.

his throat moves.he nods once.

then you add, barely audible:

“mind if i do that thing again?”

he meets your eyes.

searches your face.

your pulse roars in your ears.

“what thing?” he says softly, playing dumb.

you smirk, nervous, shy.

“whatever i just did to you.”

he lets out a low breath.

lips twitch.

“hell yeah,” he murmurs.

“do it.”

you take one step forward.

and then you kiss him again.

this one is nothing like before.

no teeth. no heat.

just want.

quiet. slow. terrifying.

your hand rests gently at the back of his neck.

his fingers curl around your wrist like he’s afraid you’ll pull away.

and for a long, long second,

there’s no pride.

no games.

just him and you.

you open the bathroom cabinet.

you’re still flushed from the second kiss - the one that left you breathless, lips swollen, head fuzzy.

jude’s behind you, arms folded, like he lives here.

like he hasn’t just turned your entire world inside out in under two hours.

“you want to brush your teeth?” you ask casually, voice lighter now.

he tilts his head, grinning.

“depends. you got an extra toothbrush, or am i raw-dogging this with my finger?”

you snort.

“you’re disgusting.”

“you’re lucky i’m hot.”

you roll your eyes and toss him a sealed travel brush from the drawer.

“don’t say i don’t take care of you.”

he opens it like it’s a gift.

“you spoil me.”

you both squeeze paste onto your brushes in silence.

elbows knock.

his shoulder bumps yours.

he leans over the sink like he’s been here before.

spits like it’s his place too.

you glance over at him mid-rinse; toothpaste foam on the edge of his mouth, that stupid little crease between his brows when he concentrates on the mirror.

you laugh.

“what?” he mumbles through foam.

“you look like you’re doing this for the first time.”

“i’m trying not to bleed. your toothbrush is aggressive.”

“you have gums like tissue paper.”

“you have issues.”

“you kissed me twice.”

“you kissed me back.”

you both crack up.

nearly choke.

spit in sync.

“floss?” you offer, holding up the box.

he squints at it. “you want me to ruin the vibe?”

“we’re already brushing our teeth at midnight. vibe’s gone, bellingham.”

he takes the floss and leans in beside you again.

the mirror fogs a little from the steam of the flat.

and somehow —

this all feels so normal.

too normal.

you catch your reflection in the mirror.

his beside yours.

toothbrushes. flushed cheeks. half-laughed breath.

you turn around to dry your hand.

and when you're doing so, you hear the tap run off behind you.

you don’t look up.

not until you feel him move.

not until his hand brushes your hip.

you turn, instinctual, curious,

but he’s already there.

he catches you softly by the waist, and with the lightest pressure, turns you around.

not urgent. not rough. just… deliberate.

your breath stutters.

he’s close again.

close enough for the scent of mint on his breath to reach you, clean and cool and intimate.

close enough for the hem of your shirt to catch on the fabric of his hoodie.

you blink once.

his hands settle.

one on your lower back.

the other… rises slowly. just enough to trace the curve of your jaw with his thumb.

his eyes drop to your lips.

but he waits.

you can feel the air shift between you.

it’s warmer now. heavier.

like the moment itself is holding its breath.

and then, finally,

he leans in.

his lips meet yours like he’s easing into a familiar song.

not crashing, not claiming. just pressing.

gentle at first, like he’s asking permission.

like he’s reminding you that this is real.

your hands curl into the front of his hoodie.

his kiss deepens with the next breath.

and god, he tastes like spearmint and something restless, something that’s been waiting too long.

you feel him exhale through his nose.

his hand shifts slightly, thumb brushing your cheekbone now, anchoring you in place as he kisses you again, slower this time. firmer. like he’s tasting a thought he can’t quite say aloud.

and it pulls something out of you.

you sigh against him, lashes fluttering closed.

your hand slides up to his collarbone, fingertips grazing the heat of his neck.

he tilts his head, just barely, and it melts into something fuller. deeper. impossibly soft.

he pulls away a fraction, just enough to whisper:

“you don’t regret it.”

your forehead rests against his.

your lips still parted. flushed.

you whisper, “no.”

his smile flickers.

not smug. not proud. just… relieved.

like something fragile inside him finally exhaled.

and then he kisses you again.

not rushed. not messy.

this one is sure.

like he knows he’ll do it again.

and again.

and again.

and you let him.

[odetooddity-logs]

tabloids and tears (1) | jude bellingham

pairing: jude bellingham x physiotherapist! reader, trent alexander arnold x physiotherapist! reader

word count: 6.7k

summary: when a professional duty forces you to work closely with jude bellingham, a man you've always known through charged glances and the quiet tension of intimately distant work interactions, the lines between professional and personal blur, hinting at a connection that will challenge everything you thought you knew.

genre: romance, drama, slow-burn, frustrating misunderstandings

a/n: yes im reposting this 😭 also pls wait for part 2

the rain isn’t falling. it’s sinking.

slow, heavy drops sliding down the back of your neck, slipping under your collar like they’ve got nowhere else to be.

your clipboard is damp. your fingers, colder than you thought. you shift the strap of your bag higher on your shoulder and keep walking, boots squelching across the edge of the training pitch.

you were supposed to be inside by now. supposed to have logged this session as low-risk, mild fatigue, routine tightness.

but someone had the bright idea to run full-intensity drills on half-soaked grass. and someone else didn’t stop them. so here you are, watching studs carve out patches in the earth like it’s a battlefield.

you clock the fall before the sound.

not loud. not dramatic. more of a folding. legs where they shouldn’t be. jersey twisted wrong.

there’s a beat, just one, where no one moves.

then a sharp exhale from the ground.

one player stops mid-sprint. another starts waving a hand. someone calls your name; tight and clipped.

you’re already moving.

mud sticks to your soles with each step. your bag thuds against your hip. the drizzle has turned your hair into static; damp strands clinging to your cheek, curling under your jaw. doesn’t matter. none of it does right now.

you kneel beside him. the grass gives, soft and slick. water seeps into your joggers at the knee.

his eyes are closed. his jaw’s locked, lashes wet. rain clings to the curve of his nose, trails down the dip above his lip. his hand is clamped tight around his ankle.

you don’t say his name but it echoes in your head. jude bellingham.

your voice is low when it comes. “where’s the pain?”

his eyes open, slow.

and there it is.

that second of flicker. confusion, recognition… then nothing. a wall going up.

“ankle,” he says, clipped. “landed weird.”

his other leg is bent. muscle flexed like he’s resisting the urge to move. or punch the ground.

your hands hover first then lower.

his sock’s already soaked. you press gently, fingers working under the tape, trying to gauge the swelling without making him flinch.

he flinches. barely. a twitch more than a jerk. but he doesn’t look away.

neither do you.

there’s heat under the skin. not fever-hot: friction-hot. like his body’s already trying to repair something it hasn’t diagnosed yet.

you shift your weight, both knees on the ground now, ignoring the squish. your gloves make it harder to feel texture, the soft give of swelling, the resistance of bruised tissue. you press in, testing. “on a scale of one to ten?”

his brow furrows. “what, like pain?”

“no, like attractiveness,” you mutter with a blank look, adjusting the angle of his foot. “yes, pain.”

he huffs through his nose. half a breath, almost a laugh. “seven. maybe eight if you keep poking it like that.”

you don’t smile. not really. but the corner of your mouth might twitch. your thumb circles just under the bone. his breathing changes… not loud. just shallow. sharper at the edges.

you glance up.

his gaze is already on you.

not in a look-at-me way. more like he hasn’t moved his eyes since you got here.

there’s mud on his temple. a blade of grass stuck behind his ear.

you don’t say anything about it.

you don’t say anything at all.

you tape him up with clean lines. snug, not too tight. your movements practiced, mechanical, until they’re not. until the part where your fingers graze his calf and pause just a second longer than they should.

you pull back.

stand.

wipe your gloves on your jacket. don’t look at him. not directly. “you’ll need treatment inside. now.”

you start walking before he replies. behind you: the sound of studs digging in. the soft curse under his breath as someone helps him up.

you don’t look back. you don’t have to. you feel it… the weight of his stare trailing behind you like steam in the cold.

and then soon one day; he’s already there when you walk in.

you don’t see him at first - just the soft thud of a ball against the wall, rhythmic and low. someone breathing in the corner. fluorescent lights humming above like they always do, too white, too loud.

you scan the room out of habit. no injuries logged for this hour. no sessions scheduled with you.

and yet. jude is leaning against the far wall, one leg outstretched, a resistance band looped around his foot. slow, controlled movements. left ankle, the same one. he’s not pushing it, but he’s not babying it either.

his head lifts when you walk in.

you stop by the storage shelf, pull out the clipboard even though there’s nothing new to check. it gives your hands something to do.

he doesn’t say anything. neither do you.

until he does.

“you always enter rooms like that?” he asks, not even looking up from the band, “like you’re walking into a crime scene.”

you don’t look over. “depends. you planning to commit one?”

“that depends.” a pause. then, “you still mad at me?”

you blink. once. turn.

he’s watching you now.

not cocky. not quite. just… waiting.

your arms cross. “should i be?”

he shrugs. “you walked out like i said something wrong.”

“you didn’t say anything.”

“exactly.” his jaw tightens. just a little. “but maybe i should’ve.”

your lips part, to say what, you don’t know. but nothing comes out. so you drop the clipboard on the table and cross the room instead.

he shifts his weight as you kneel beside him. same knee down. same angle. same distance.

this time, you notice the small things: the way his shoelaces are double-knotted too tight. the faint mark on his shin from an old boot stud. he smells like the gym: warm cotton, sweat, faint eucalyptus from the shared spray.

“any pain?” you ask, voice neutral.

“no.”

you glance up.

“swear.” his voice softens on that one word. like he’s trying to offer something.

you nod. press your fingers against his ankle, testing again.

there’s tension in the way he holds still. not physical. not entirely.

your thumbs trace down. slow. deliberate.

his breathing shifts. again.

you pause. “you’re doing fine,” you say.

simple. safe.

he swallows. looks away. “do you remember what you said that day?” he asks quietly.

your brows knit. “i said a lot of things.”

he doesn’t smile this time. just meets your gaze like he’s tired of pretending there wasn’t something there. something charged, unsaid, unfinished. “you said you weren’t flirting.”

your mouth goes dry.

he leans forward slightly. not enough to close the distance. just enough to be heard over the buzz of the lights and the low thud of your pulse in your ears. “what if i was?” he asks.

you don’t answer. your fingers are still on his ankle. you don’t move them.

his eyes don’t move. not even a flicker. like he’s daring you to look away first.

you don’t.

you should. you should absolutely pull back, say something clinical, something boring. you should ask about his training plan, his minutes this week, anything that puts this back into safe territory.

but your hand is still resting just above the tape line, fingers slack now. not checking. not fixing. just… there.

his skin is warm under your glove. familiar now, which is almost worse.

you finally shift your hand away. slow. measured. like moving too fast would make something spill.

his eyes drop to the space where your hand used to be.

and then he exhales. not dramatic, just quiet.

but it unspools something. “you don’t talk much, do you?” he asks, tone unreadable.

you lean back onto your heels. not far, but enough. enough to get air. “i talk when it matters.”

he hums. “guess that’s the problem. no idea what counts with you.”

you glance up at that. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

he licks his bottom lip –fast– then looks straight at you again. “means you keep your face all calm and cool, and then you look at me like you’re already halfway gone. and i can’t tell if i imagined it.”

you blink. once. twice. “you didn’t imagine it.” your voice comes out steadier than you expected.

not a whisper. not a confession. just truth, placed on the table between you like a live wire.

his eyes darken. not anger; focus. like he’s tuning into a signal he’d been chasing since the first time you touched him on the field.

he shifts forward just slightly, knee brushing yours now. “so what now?” he asks.

your breath hitches. not from nerves, from the weight of what he’s asking.

not do you like me.

not was i right.

just: what happens next?

and honestly, you don’t know.

you glance down at his taped ankle: solid, healing, steady. you remember the rain. the way his gaze burned through it like heat through fog. the way he flinched, barely, but never pulled away.

you look back up.

he hasn’t moved. hasn’t blinked.

you swallow. shift your voice lower. even. “this is still a rehab session.”

he raises a brow. “feels like more.”

“maybe don’t push your luck.”

his smile is slow. crooked. “maybe i’m just pushing the right buttons.”

you don’t smile back. but your eyes betray you. just slightly. the kind of soft that only shows when no one’s supposed to be watching.

but he is.

he’s watching everything.

you stand. smooth your palms down your joggers. “ankle’s good,” you say. “rest it tomorrow. check-in next week.”

you move to leave.

and then:

his voice, low behind you. no smirk this time. “you always this careful?”

your hand freezes on the doorframe.

he doesn’t fill the silence. just lets it sit there. thick and impossible.

you glance back –just once– over your shoulder. “only with things that can break,” you say.

and you walk out. heart thudding. not from nerves.

from possibility.

it goes back to normal.

or close enough to it.

—

jude’s back in full training.

ankle holds. no tape. no twinge. he’s on the pitch again: scoring, passing, bantering like nothing ever happened. the physio room gets quieter. no more solo sessions. no more damp silence with your fingers pressed to his skin like you’re listening for a second heartbeat.

he still sees you.

but less.

you’re still at matches, tucked behind the bench with your clipboard and your unreadable face. still at training, walking the sidelines with that same calm in your stride. still handing out water bottles, updates, instructions; but it’s all business now.

always was, technically. but still.

he notices the difference before he admits it.

no more accidental eye contact. no more near-touch when you pass the resistance bands or take his vitals. no more pauses. no more anything.

you don’t ignore him. you just… don’t seek him out. maybe you never did. maybe he made that up. maybe he built an entire conversation from the way your fingers paused just one second too long. maybe he filled in the blanks with something he wanted.

he tells himself it’s fine. game after game. routine. recovery. team dinner. repeat. he’s busy.

too busy to notice how long it’s been since he heard your voice. and then he realizes…

he hasn’t seen you at all. not just less. not at all.

at first, it’s easy to brush off. maybe you’re busy with something else today. maybe you’re logging something in the office. maybe you’re avoiding someone else entirely. but by the third day, something pulls at the back of his ribs like a splinter he didn’t know was there.

no one’s said anything. no one’s acting weird. but you're just… gone. no footsteps, no clipped sarcasm, no hum of your voice behind the scenes. he walks into physio early on thursday, already mid-laugh at something trent said, and freezes when he sees someone else unpacking a fresh box of tape.

a new girl. slick back ponytail, bright eyes, fresh smile. she turns when she hears the door. “hey jude!”

he nods.

“i’m covering this week. if you need anything, just let me know.”

he blinks. “covering for who?”

her smile falters a little. “oh- uh. sorry. i thought someone told you. she’s on leave. emergency stuff. family, i think.”

his mouth opens. then shuts again.

leave? when? why?

why didn’t anyone- why didn’t you-

“you okay?” the girl asks, still polite.

“yeah,” he says, voice a little hoarse. “yeah, no. just… didn’t know.” he walks out before she can say anything else.

and now it’s all he can think about. you’re not here. and you didn’t say anything. and he knows, he knows, he wasn’t entitled to that. he wasn’t entitled to anything. not your number, not your time, not being informed by you that you-

but still.

you could’ve.

he plays like usual that weekend. another assist. another win. but it feels off. like something’s missing from the locker room, something just out of view. like he’s waiting for someone to walk past the hallway window. waiting for a door to open. he doesn't tell anyone. he just keeps thinking about the last thing he said to you.

“you always this careful?”

“only with things that can break.”

and now you’re gone. just… gone. It’s as if you never existed to begin with.

it starts small. he lingers near the physio room longer than he should. doesn’t even mean to… just ends up there. stretching. adjusting his boots. re-tying laces that don’t need it.

he doesn’t ask about you. not out loud.

but his eyes flick to every unfamiliar face, waiting for one that isn’t new. one that knows how he takes his tape. one that doesn’t ask dumb questions about his hydration levels.

nothing. no you. he walks past the back office once. twice. loses count. he’s not looking for anything. he’s just… walking.

right.

he heads down to the gym and ends up in the rehab space instead. says it’s quieter there, which it is, technically, but no one buys it. not even him.

trent clocks it first. “you good?” not casual. not teasing.

“yeah.”

trent just looks at him. then back at the turf. “you’re not looking for someone, are you?”

“no.” he says it fast. too fast.

trent doesn’t push. he never does. but his expression doesn’t soften either.

and jude’s stomach twists for no reason he’ll acknowledge.

—

the days bleed into each other. training, matches, press, recovery. all clockwork. his body holds up. his game sharpens. stats improve. he’s doing well; no one can say he’s not. but his head feels... loud.

he doesn’t notice it until it’s matchday and he looks up after a warmup and expects to see you near the bench; clipboard, curls, no expression– and it just hits that he’s still doing it.

still looking.

still expecting. why?

you’re not his. you were never his. you patched him up, taped his ankle, touched his skin like it didn’t matter. then you left.

and he’s the one standing here like a dumbass, searching the crowd for a ghost.

it’s pathetic.

he goes out that night.

not with friends. not with teammates. with her.

an escort, apparently.

he doesn’t ask –not directly– but her name comes with a wink from the promoter and a subtle nudge from someone’s agent.

he’s not drunk, but he wants to be. he’s not smiling, but the cameras catch him like he is. his hand finds her waist because that’s what you do, right? when you’re trying to be seen. when you’re trying not to think about someone who isn’t there.

the girl is pretty. of course she is. she laughs at things he doesn’t say. touches him like she means it, even when he doesn’t move.

the flashes don’t stop all night. tabloids eat it up by morning.

“New Flame For Bellingham?”

“Jude Spotted Leaving A Club With Model-Turned-Socialite. Is It Love?”

“Real Madrid's Golden Boy Heating Up Off The Pitch Too.”

he scrolls through the headlines without reading them.

his eyes catch on the photos.

his own face looks like a stranger.

and it doesn’t fix anything.

the girl texts. a lot. he doesn’t answer.

she posts a picture from his kitchen. his jaw clenches. he hears someone at the training center mention her name; laughing, loud. he doesn’t say anything, just keeps taping his wrist like his skin is made of paper.

he’s tired. his game’s good. everything else is noise.

he showers later than usual one day, everyone else already gone. he sits on the bench with his phone in hand, screen dark.

no texts. no missed calls.

not from you.

he doesn’t even know your number.

god, that’s the worst part. he felt so understood by you. there was a connection, a mutual understanding, an overlooked intimacy there. he wonders if he’d ever have such moment of peace in silence with anyone else… ever again… it’s more than what meets the eyes of the rest.

all that time, all those glances, silences, that moment in the rehab room where your knees touched and his voice dropped; and he never asked.

because he thought he had time.

because he thought you’d still be there.

and now what?

you’re somewhere else, dealing with something real, and he’s here. scrolling through empty messages. lying to tabloids with a girl he doesn’t like. playing the best football of his career and feeling nothing when the whistle blows.

he misses you.he finally lets himself think it.

he misses you.

not just your voice. your presence.

the way you made everything quieter. clearer. like he was being seen in a way that wasn’t shiny or performative or loud. and now you’re gone. and he doesn’t even know why that matters so much. or maybe he does.

you’re a physio. you work with injured players. you did your job.

he’s not injured anymore.

so what does that make him now?

—

you don’t read tabloids.

but sometimes, they read you.

the headline shows up while you’re checking the weather. just a swipe left on your lock screen; no intention behind it.

“Jude Bellingham Spotted With Escort Again. Sources Say It’s Serious.”

you blink. the forecast still says 70% chance of rain.

you don’t click it. you don’t need to.

there are pictures, anyway. embedded in the preview.

his hand on her back. his head tilted close, like he’s saying something private. her laughing. him not.

you exhale through your nose. not bitter. not jealous. just… tired.

this, you think, is why i don’t.

don’t get close. don’t ask questions. don’t flirt back, even when the air is thick with it.

you’d seen it coming: the slow way his gaze shifted, how his interest had started to feel like a tug, like a thread you’d have to follow if you so much as looked too long.

you didn’t follow it. you walked away.

and still, it stung a little. not because he moved on. but because part of you thought he’d do that diligently. not with this… whatever. no point in mulling over spilled milk. which, in hindsight, is exactly why you needed the space.

they always move on.

footballers. artists. anyone used to being watched. they need attention like lungs need air. when you don’t give it, they find someone who will. you spent years learning how to keep your distance.

he’s not going to be the one to make you forget that.

—

returning is quiet. no drama. no announcement.

you’re just… there again.

clip your badge back onto your jacket. check the inventory. smile at the interns. pick up the schedule like you never left.

no one brings it up.

and that’s fine. better, even.

the first time you see jude, he’s walking out of the locker room, tugging his sleeve down over his wrist. you keep moving. he does too. your shoulders don’t brush. your eyes don’t meet.

you say nothing. he says nothing. and the weirdest part is; it’s fine.

he doesn’t seek you out. doesn’t ask about your family. doesn’t pull you aside like there’s something unresolved. he’s polite, distant, professional.

you match it. and maybe it should hurt, but it doesn’t. because this is the version of him you understand best.

star footballer. focused. unavailable.

you stay in your lane. handle your cases. keep your voice even. you do everything right.

and then… trent starts showing up.

it starts with a joke.

you’re rewrapping a knee and he passes by, mutters something under his breath; a joke about the new intern, about her labeling everything with her name like it’s a daycare center.

you don’t even look up. “maybe she’s just marking territory.”

he huffs. “sounds dangerous.”

you glance at him. “this place is dangerous. full of men with too much ego and too little sense.”

he grins. “good thing i’m humble.”

you raise a brow. “you? you can barely walk past a mirror without saluting it.”

“you watch me walk past mirrors?”

“i have to. you block the hall.”

he laughs. fully. loudly. the sound echoes.

you turn back to the knee you’re taping. don’t say anything else.

but trent lingers. leans on the table while you work. asks a few more questions. throws in a compliment about your technique. you side-eye him, and he grins wider, like he’s proud of himself for getting a reaction.

and here’s the thing… you don’t mind it. you don’t mind him.

he’s funny. soft-spoken when he wants to be. he listens more than he talks, which is rare in his world.

you’re not giving him anything. but you’re not shutting him down, either.

and that’s when you feel it.

someone watching.

you look up, not at trent, not at your patient.

across the room, jude is standing by the cold bath. towel over one shoulder, earbuds still in. staring.

not at the clock. not at the wall.

at you.

his expression is unreadable. not angry. not even surprised. just… locked.

you look away first. not because you’re flustered.

because you don’t owe him anything.

—

the rehab room smells like eucalyptus gel and overripe bananas.

trent makes a face the second he walks in.

"swear this place always smells like someone juiced a forest."

you don’t look up from the ankle you’re icing. “complain any louder and i’ll shove a compression sock down your throat.”

he smirks. kicks the door shut behind him with the heel of his boot. “don’t threaten me with a good time.”

you glance up at that. finally.

his damp shirt stuck to his chest. flushed from training, but still grinning like he’s just gotten away with something.

“i’m working,” you remind him, motioning to the player on the table.

trent shrugs. “i’m not stopping you.”

he walks over anyway. plants himself on the edge pf the treatment bench across from you. leans back on his hands like he’s got all the time in the world.

you roll your eyes. "if you're trying to get hurt just to spend more time in here, i’ll break your knee myself."

he grins. "what if i just like the company?"

"what if i just like peace and quiet?"

his laugh is soft, low. like it slips out before he can catch it.

the player you're working on raises an eyebrow but wisely says nothing. trent watches your hands move: steady, practiced, pressing the gel into skin with slow circles.

"serious question," trent says, biting into an energy bar he pulled from god knows where. "if someone were to, i don’t know, accidentally pull a hamstring doing the robot, would you still treat them?"

you don’t miss a beat. “i’d treat them like the idiot they are.”

“so… yes?”

"no."

he grins again. crumples the wrapper and lobs it into the trash from across the room.

misses.

you shake your head. “athleticism really peaking today, huh?”

he places a hand over his heart. “low blow.”

“deserved.”

the back-and-forth is easy. comfortable.

a current running under the surface, but not disruptive. just there.

your lips tug upward, the smallest smile. barely-there. but trent catches it. you see it in the way his eyes shift; soft at the edges now, teasing less, watching more.

“you smile like it’s illegal,” he says, quieter this time.

you pause, fingers still pressed to the ice pack. “maybe it is.”

“then arrest me. i wanna see it again.”

you blink. slow. not flustered… just… thrown for a second.

and that’s when jude walks in.

he’s not loud about it. just steps through the open door, towel in hand, shirt half-tucked. sweat dripping down his face and neck, jaw set.

he doesn’t speak. doesn’t interrupt.

but he doesn’t leave either.

he walks past the table where you’re working, like he’s heading for the cabinets, but his eyes track the two of you the entire way. slow. unreadable.

your shoulders stiffen just slightly. you feel the air shift.

trent doesn’t turn. but he knows. you can tell by the way his tone flicks sharper.

“you good, mate?” he calls without looking.

“fine,” jude says. voice flat. measured. “didn’t realize this was your therapy session.”

you don’t say anything. you keep adjusting the ice.

trent smiles, still leaning back, still relaxed. “not mine, bro. just vibing.”

you finally glance up at jude.

his eyes meet yours. brief. fleeting. and then gone.

he grabs a roll of tape off the shelf. doesn’t need it. doesn’t even check the color. just something to hold.

“didn’t know you were into vibes now,” jude mutters. almost to himself.

trent’s smirk doesn’t falter. "evolving. character development."

you straighten up. your hands are cold from the ice. your fingertips numb. "if you two want to start a podcast, do it somewhere else," you say, voice dry.

trent stands, stretching. grins down at you.

“only if you’re our first guest.”

you ignore him. but your lips twitch again.

jude sees it.

of course he does.

sees how you don’t brush trent off the way you used to brush him off? not icy, not deflecting. just present. comfortable. maybe even open.

he clenches the roll of tape in his fist, too hard, like it’s the tape’s fault.

you turn back to your patient.

trent throws a mock salute and heads out, humming something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like the chorus to a bad 2000s r&b song.

jude lingers a few seconds longer.

you don’t look at him. you feel him watching you; jaw tight, eyes narrow. but you don’t give him anything.

eventually, he leaves.

no words. no glances back. just silence, echoing like the end of something he doesn’t know how to name.

and then… trent shows up early again. again.

you’re already in the physio room, cataloguing restock supplies, earbuds in but music off. just needed the noise.

he leans on the doorframe like he’s been there for a while.

you glance up. “you’re early.”

he smiles. “you say that like you’re not happy to see me.”

“maybe i’m not.”

he takes a step closer. “but maybe you are.”

you snort, not looking at him. “you always this cocky or is it just around me?”

“just you,” he says, without missing a beat.

you finally turn. he’s watching you — but not in the way most people do. not waiting to get something. just… watching.

you reach into the drawer for more tape, and he catches your wrist. not hard. not even sudden. just enough to make you pause.

“hey,” he says. softer. “you alright?”

you blink. “why wouldn’t i be?”

he tilts his head. “you’ve been acting like nothing gets to you. but you look tired. and not the good kind.”

you hesitate.

and then you say, “my family stuff isn’t fully sorted yet.”

he nods. “that why you disappeared?”

“mm.”

he doesn’t ask more. doesn’t push. he just squeezes your wrist –briefly– and lets go.

“thanks for not prying,” you say quietly.

“thanks for letting me in, a little.”

you look at him. really look at him. trent’s always been charming, sure; quick with a joke, easy with a smile. but lately, it’s quieter. more consistent. he shows up. he stays. you don’t know when that started mattering.

you sit down on the treatment bench, rubbing a knot out of your wrist. “you’re surprisingly decent, alexander arnold.”

he grins. “don’t let that get around.”

you raise a brow. “ruin the brand?”

“exactly.” and then, as he turns to leave, he says, almost like it’s nothing, “i’m glad you’re back.”

you say nothing.

but your smile follows him out.

—

jude sees it.

he sees everything. he’s standing by the water cooler, jaw set, breathing too slow for someone who didn’t just train. he watches trent walk out.

watches your head tilt in that way you do when someone catches you off guard. watches the faint curve of your mouth.

not big enough to be obvious, but too soft to be neutral. and something snaps.

you’re in the hallway when it happens.

he steps in front of you like he was waiting for this moment. “can we talk?”

you stare at him. “about?”

“don’t do that.”

“do what?”

“pretend you don’t know.”

you cross your arms. “jude, i’m working. unless you’ve torn something-”

“stop,” he says. sharp. almost low.

you go still. his eyes are dark. unreadable. voice tighter than you’ve ever heard it. “what’s going on with you and trent?”

your jaw tightens. “excuse me?”

“you heard me.”

you tilt your head. “you’re asking about my personal life now?”

he steps closer. “i just think it’s funny.”

“what’s funny?”

“how quick you turned,” he spits. “how cold you were with me. how you acted like i was something to avoid- like I was messing with you- and now what? trent breathes near you and you melt.”

you feel it in your chest; that hot, rising flare of fury. not from the jealousy. from the entitlement.

you step forward.

"you do not get to talk to me like that."

his expression cracks. “i cared. i tried. and you looked at me like i was-”

“what?” you interrupt. “like you were one of a hundred footballers who think they’re owed something because they flirt with their physio?”

he flinches.

but you’re not done.

“you do have a girlfriend, jude. or did you forget that somewhere between nightclub appearances and private yacht photos?”

he opens his mouth. nothing comes out.

you shake your head. “this-” you motion vaguely between you, “-was never anything. and you’re acting like i betrayed you.”

he finally says, voice low, “because you never looked at me like that.”

you stop.

his eyes are tired now. raw. none of the ego left. just hurt, bruised and bleeding underneath.

you could lie. you could say nothing.

but you don’t.

“you scared me,” you say softly. “you made everything feel dangerous. like if i gave you an inch, you’d burn the whole thing down. and i couldn’t afford that.”

he looks at you. really looks. for once, no mask.

you finish, “trent makes me feel safe.”

his shoulders drop. like something leaves him.

"right,” he says. voice flat. “got it.”

you step back. create distance.

“jude,” you add, voice gentler, “you’re allowed to be upset. but this? whatever it was? it was never yours to be angry over.”

he nods. once. “you’re right.”

his voice is hollow. quiet.

he walks away.

and this time, you don’t watch him go.

—

it’s jude’s idea. he brings it up like it’s nothing:

a casual dinner. new place, soft lights, good food.

he invites trent first. then tosses the invite to you like an afterthought, voice too smooth, like he’s trying not to think about how it’ll land.

you pause for a beat too long. then say, “sure,” like it doesn’t matter.

trent grins. “we’ll come.”

we.

you ignore the way jude’s jaw ticks at that.

barely.

you show up with trent.

early, for once.

he opens the door for you without making a thing of it, hand resting at the small of your back just long enough to remind you he’s there.

you’re laughing when you walk in. something he said in the car. something about your music taste being “criminally chaotic.”

jude’s already at the table.

he stands when you arrive. polite, smiling, collected. his date, ailyn, sits beside him. model-perfect, aloof, bored already. she doesn’t look at you twice.

you slide into your seat across from jude.

trent takes the chair beside you. close, but not too close.

his knee brushes yours under the table. you don’t move.

the restaurant is warm. golden. brass fixtures. candlelight that flickers with every slow exhale.

trent reads the menu out loud with fake ‘posh’ accents. tries to guess what half the ingredients mean. gets it wrong, and owns it. makes you laugh so hard you nearly spill your drink.

he leans in every time you speak. like he wants to catch every word before it hits the air.

you let him.

across from you, jude hasn’t said much. he’s sipping his drink too fast. nodding at things without reacting.

ailyn's talking, but his eyes are on you. not obviously. just… lingering. a beat too long, a breath too slow.

he watches the way you glance sideways at trent. the way your shoulder tilts slightly toward him. the way your eyes crinkle when trent mutters something only you can hear.

when trent reaches to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear –slow, gentle, uunshoy– jude’s smile flickers.

barely.

but you catch it.

his jaw clenches. his knuckles tighten around his fork.

you pretend not to see.

trent offers you the last bite of dessert without hesitation. he scrapes the chocolate onto the fork, holds it out, smirking. “you have to try this. promise.”

you part your lips just enough to take it. your eyes don’t leave his.

and jude’s foot starts bouncing under the table. not loud. not noticeable. unless you’re already listening for it.

you are.

ailyn nudges him. “you good?”

he nods without looking away. “yeah. tired.”

a bit later, you excuse yourself for a moment- bathroom, just to breathe.

when you come back, trent is standing. pulling your chair back for you. you smile at him without thinking. thank him with your eyes more than your voice.

he brushes your hand as you sit. keeps talking. keeps looking at you like you’ve got all his attention.

jude watches it all.

watches you fold into trent like it’s natural. watches your smile reach places it never reached when he was on the receiving end of it.

and for a moment, just one, jude looks like he might say something. his lips part. his fingers twitch like they’re reaching for something he doesn’t have anymore.

but then the check comes. and he doesn’t speak. he signs it too fast. like he needs the moment to end before it kills him.

outside, the air is cold.

trent slips his jacket off and drapes it over your shoulders before you can object. his fingers linger at your collar for a second longer than necessary.

“warm enough?”

you nod. your throat’s tight, suddenly. he’s too gentle for your own good.

jude is standing near the curb with ailyn, who’s still talking. still texting. still very much not looking at him.

his eyes, though?

locked on you.

he watches as trent walks you to his car. watches you laugh again, quietly this time, head down, eyes soft.

you don’t look back.

you don’t need to.

you can feel him watching you. still.

and you don’t flinch.

trent drives you home.

the windows are down. city air curling in around your wrists as you lean on the edge of the passenger side door.

he keeps glancing over, one hand on the wheel, the other fidgeting on his thigh. he’s nervous. you can feel it before he says anything.

you’re quiet. not because you’re uncomfortable. just… full.

your skin still tingles where he touched you tonight. that soft moment when he handed you his jacket. the fork. the earring. the way his fingers skimmed your cheek like you were breakable.

he pulls up in front of your place, and for a second, neither of you moves.

you turn to thank him but he’s already looking at you.

“come here,” he murmurs.

you lean in without thinking.

his hand comes up to cradle your jaw, thumb barely brushing your cheekbone. his breath smells like dessert and mint and something sweeter you can’t name.

you’re so close you can feel the warmth of his breath on your lips. your eyes flick to his mouth, then back to his eyes. his thumb pauses. your breathing slows. and just before your lips meet- “wait,” he says softly, barely a whisper, eyes not leaving yours.

you freeze.

“can I ask you something first?”

you nod. barely.

he pulls back just a little, hand still on your face. “what are we doing?”

you blink. your stomach dips.

“i mean…” he breathes out a short laugh. “i like you. you know that, yeah?”

you nod again, slower.

“and it’s not just… this. flirting. touching. the looks,” he says. “i want to call you mine.”

your heart stutters. a part of you wants to say yes before he finishes the sentence. but then-

“i want people to know,” he adds, smiling like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “i don’t wanna sneak around. i want to post you. take you out properly. make it real.”

and there it is. your chest tightens. you pull back a little, his hand dropping from your cheek. “trent…”

he watches your expression shift. confusion flashes across his face. “what?”

you hesitate. “i don’t… do that,” you murmur. “public stuff.”

he furrows his brow, soft at first. “what do you mean?”

“i can’t be in photos with you. or stories. or interviews. i can’t be-” you pause. “a public figure.”

he blinks. you see it hit.

“but… you work with us. you’re already in the spotlight.”

“not like that,” you say quickly. “i’ve spent years staying behind the scenes. i know what it’s like when things go public. they’ll pick me apart, trent. they’ll say things. they’ll twist everything. i’ve seen it happen.”

he’s quiet. not angry. just… confused.

“but i’d protect you,” he says. “you know i would.”

you nod. “i know.”

“and you’re beautiful,” he says. voice firmer now, frustrated. “so beautiful. why would you hide?”

you bite your lip. your hands twist in your lap. “it’s not about being pretty,” you whisper. “it’s about being safe. i've already got lots of personal issues going on, trent.”

that hits something. you see it in his eyes. he leans back in his seat. rubs a hand down his face. “so what,” he says slowly, “i can be with you… but only in private?”

you open your mouth. close it again.

“i have to sneak out the back, never post you, never talk about you?”

“trent-”

“what’s the point, then?” he cuts in. not harsh,but disappointed. hurt. “what’s the point of all this if i can’t show the world who you are to me?”

your throat tightens.

he’s not yelling. he’s not pushing. he’s just asking.

but you don’t have an answer that won’t break something. so you sit there. silent.

he exhales, turns away slightly, jaw tight.

the gap between you feels bigger than it did all week.

you reach for the door handle. pause. “i like you,” you say, voice shaking. “i really do.”

“then say yes,” he murmurs. “be mine.”

you hesitate. and that silence is louder than anything else.

you open the door. step out. before you close it, you whisper, “goodnight.”

he doesn’t say it back.

you hear him pull away a few seconds later. your chest doesn’t stop aching for hours.

[odetooddity-logs]

tabloids and tears (1) | jude bellingham

pairing: jude bellingham x physiotherapist! reader, trent alexander arnold x physiotherapist! reader

word count: 6.7k

summary: when a professional duty forces you to work closely with jude bellingham, a man you've always known through charged glances and the quiet tension of intimately distant work interactions, the lines between professional and personal blur, hinting at a connection that will challenge everything you thought you knew.

genre: romance, drama, slow-burn, frustrating misunderstandings

a/n: yes im reposting this 😭 also pls wait for part 2

the rain isn’t falling. it’s sinking.

slow, heavy drops sliding down the back of your neck, slipping under your collar like they’ve got nowhere else to be.

your clipboard is damp. your fingers, colder than you thought. you shift the strap of your bag higher on your shoulder and keep walking, boots squelching across the edge of the training pitch.

you were supposed to be inside by now. supposed to have logged this session as low-risk, mild fatigue, routine tightness.

but someone had the bright idea to run full-intensity drills on half-soaked grass. and someone else didn’t stop them. so here you are, watching studs carve out patches in the earth like it’s a battlefield.

you clock the fall before the sound.

not loud. not dramatic. more of a folding. legs where they shouldn’t be. jersey twisted wrong.

there’s a beat, just one, where no one moves.

then a sharp exhale from the ground.

one player stops mid-sprint. another starts waving a hand. someone calls your name; tight and clipped.

you’re already moving.

mud sticks to your soles with each step. your bag thuds against your hip. the drizzle has turned your hair into static; damp strands clinging to your cheek, curling under your jaw. doesn’t matter. none of it does right now.

you kneel beside him. the grass gives, soft and slick. water seeps into your joggers at the knee.

his eyes are closed. his jaw’s locked, lashes wet. rain clings to the curve of his nose, trails down the dip above his lip. his hand is clamped tight around his ankle.

you don’t say his name but it echoes in your head. jude bellingham.

your voice is low when it comes. “where’s the pain?”

his eyes open, slow.

and there it is.

that second of flicker. confusion, recognition… then nothing. a wall going up.

“ankle,” he says, clipped. “landed weird.”

his other leg is bent. muscle flexed like he’s resisting the urge to move. or punch the ground.

your hands hover first then lower.

his sock’s already soaked. you press gently, fingers working under the tape, trying to gauge the swelling without making him flinch.

he flinches. barely. a twitch more than a jerk. but he doesn’t look away.

neither do you.

there’s heat under the skin. not fever-hot: friction-hot. like his body’s already trying to repair something it hasn’t diagnosed yet.

you shift your weight, both knees on the ground now, ignoring the squish. your gloves make it harder to feel texture, the soft give of swelling, the resistance of bruised tissue. you press in, testing. “on a scale of one to ten?”

his brow furrows. “what, like pain?”

“no, like attractiveness,” you mutter with a blank look, adjusting the angle of his foot. “yes, pain.”

he huffs through his nose. half a breath, almost a laugh. “seven. maybe eight if you keep poking it like that.”

you don’t smile. not really. but the corner of your mouth might twitch. your thumb circles just under the bone. his breathing changes… not loud. just shallow. sharper at the edges.

you glance up.

his gaze is already on you.

not in a look-at-me way. more like he hasn’t moved his eyes since you got here.

there’s mud on his temple. a blade of grass stuck behind his ear.

you don’t say anything about it.

you don’t say anything at all.

you tape him up with clean lines. snug, not too tight. your movements practiced, mechanical, until they’re not. until the part where your fingers graze his calf and pause just a second longer than they should.

you pull back.

stand.

wipe your gloves on your jacket. don’t look at him. not directly. “you’ll need treatment inside. now.”

you start walking before he replies. behind you: the sound of studs digging in. the soft curse under his breath as someone helps him up.

you don’t look back. you don’t have to. you feel it… the weight of his stare trailing behind you like steam in the cold.

and then soon one day; he’s already there when you walk in.

you don’t see him at first - just the soft thud of a ball against the wall, rhythmic and low. someone breathing in the corner. fluorescent lights humming above like they always do, too white, too loud.

you scan the room out of habit. no injuries logged for this hour. no sessions scheduled with you.

and yet. jude is leaning against the far wall, one leg outstretched, a resistance band looped around his foot. slow, controlled movements. left ankle, the same one. he’s not pushing it, but he’s not babying it either.

his head lifts when you walk in.

you stop by the storage shelf, pull out the clipboard even though there’s nothing new to check. it gives your hands something to do.

he doesn’t say anything. neither do you.

until he does.

“you always enter rooms like that?” he asks, not even looking up from the band, “like you’re walking into a crime scene.”

you don’t look over. “depends. you planning to commit one?”

“that depends.” a pause. then, “you still mad at me?”

you blink. once. turn.

he’s watching you now.

not cocky. not quite. just… waiting.

your arms cross. “should i be?”

he shrugs. “you walked out like i said something wrong.”

“you didn’t say anything.”

“exactly.” his jaw tightens. just a little. “but maybe i should’ve.”

your lips part, to say what, you don’t know. but nothing comes out. so you drop the clipboard on the table and cross the room instead.

he shifts his weight as you kneel beside him. same knee down. same angle. same distance.

this time, you notice the small things: the way his shoelaces are double-knotted too tight. the faint mark on his shin from an old boot stud. he smells like the gym: warm cotton, sweat, faint eucalyptus from the shared spray.

“any pain?” you ask, voice neutral.

“no.”

you glance up.

“swear.” his voice softens on that one word. like he’s trying to offer something.

you nod. press your fingers against his ankle, testing again.

there’s tension in the way he holds still. not physical. not entirely.

your thumbs trace down. slow. deliberate.

his breathing shifts. again.

you pause. “you’re doing fine,” you say.

simple. safe.

he swallows. looks away. “do you remember what you said that day?” he asks quietly.

your brows knit. “i said a lot of things.”

he doesn’t smile this time. just meets your gaze like he’s tired of pretending there wasn’t something there. something charged, unsaid, unfinished. “you said you weren’t flirting.”

your mouth goes dry.

he leans forward slightly. not enough to close the distance. just enough to be heard over the buzz of the lights and the low thud of your pulse in your ears. “what if i was?” he asks.

you don’t answer. your fingers are still on his ankle. you don’t move them.

his eyes don’t move. not even a flicker. like he’s daring you to look away first.

you don’t.

you should. you should absolutely pull back, say something clinical, something boring. you should ask about his training plan, his minutes this week, anything that puts this back into safe territory.

but your hand is still resting just above the tape line, fingers slack now. not checking. not fixing. just… there.

his skin is warm under your glove. familiar now, which is almost worse.

you finally shift your hand away. slow. measured. like moving too fast would make something spill.

his eyes drop to the space where your hand used to be.

and then he exhales. not dramatic, just quiet.

but it unspools something. “you don’t talk much, do you?” he asks, tone unreadable.

you lean back onto your heels. not far, but enough. enough to get air. “i talk when it matters.”

he hums. “guess that’s the problem. no idea what counts with you.”

you glance up at that. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

he licks his bottom lip –fast– then looks straight at you again. “means you keep your face all calm and cool, and then you look at me like you’re already halfway gone. and i can’t tell if i imagined it.”

you blink. once. twice. “you didn’t imagine it.” your voice comes out steadier than you expected.

not a whisper. not a confession. just truth, placed on the table between you like a live wire.

his eyes darken. not anger; focus. like he’s tuning into a signal he’d been chasing since the first time you touched him on the field.

he shifts forward just slightly, knee brushing yours now. “so what now?” he asks.

your breath hitches. not from nerves, from the weight of what he’s asking.

not do you like me.

not was i right.

just: what happens next?

and honestly, you don’t know.

you glance down at his taped ankle: solid, healing, steady. you remember the rain. the way his gaze burned through it like heat through fog. the way he flinched, barely, but never pulled away.

you look back up.

he hasn’t moved. hasn’t blinked.

you swallow. shift your voice lower. even. “this is still a rehab session.”

he raises a brow. “feels like more.”

“maybe don’t push your luck.”

his smile is slow. crooked. “maybe i’m just pushing the right buttons.”

you don’t smile back. but your eyes betray you. just slightly. the kind of soft that only shows when no one’s supposed to be watching.

but he is.

he’s watching everything.

you stand. smooth your palms down your joggers. “ankle’s good,” you say. “rest it tomorrow. check-in next week.”

you move to leave.

and then:

his voice, low behind you. no smirk this time. “you always this careful?”

your hand freezes on the doorframe.

he doesn’t fill the silence. just lets it sit there. thick and impossible.

you glance back –just once– over your shoulder. “only with things that can break,” you say.

and you walk out. heart thudding. not from nerves.

from possibility.

it goes back to normal.

or close enough to it.

—

jude’s back in full training.

ankle holds. no tape. no twinge. he’s on the pitch again: scoring, passing, bantering like nothing ever happened. the physio room gets quieter. no more solo sessions. no more damp silence with your fingers pressed to his skin like you’re listening for a second heartbeat.

he still sees you.

but less.

you’re still at matches, tucked behind the bench with your clipboard and your unreadable face. still at training, walking the sidelines with that same calm in your stride. still handing out water bottles, updates, instructions; but it’s all business now.

always was, technically. but still.

he notices the difference before he admits it.

no more accidental eye contact. no more near-touch when you pass the resistance bands or take his vitals. no more pauses. no more anything.

you don’t ignore him. you just… don’t seek him out. maybe you never did. maybe he made that up. maybe he built an entire conversation from the way your fingers paused just one second too long. maybe he filled in the blanks with something he wanted.

he tells himself it’s fine. game after game. routine. recovery. team dinner. repeat. he’s busy.

too busy to notice how long it’s been since he heard your voice. and then he realizes…

he hasn’t seen you at all. not just less. not at all.

at first, it’s easy to brush off. maybe you’re busy with something else today. maybe you’re logging something in the office. maybe you’re avoiding someone else entirely. but by the third day, something pulls at the back of his ribs like a splinter he didn’t know was there.

no one’s said anything. no one’s acting weird. but you're just… gone. no footsteps, no clipped sarcasm, no hum of your voice behind the scenes. he walks into physio early on thursday, already mid-laugh at something trent said, and freezes when he sees someone else unpacking a fresh box of tape.

a new girl. slick back ponytail, bright eyes, fresh smile. she turns when she hears the door. “hey jude!”

he nods.

“i’m covering this week. if you need anything, just let me know.”

he blinks. “covering for who?”

her smile falters a little. “oh- uh. sorry. i thought someone told you. she’s on leave. emergency stuff. family, i think.”

his mouth opens. then shuts again.

leave? when? why?

why didn’t anyone- why didn’t you-

“you okay?” the girl asks, still polite.

“yeah,” he says, voice a little hoarse. “yeah, no. just… didn’t know.” he walks out before she can say anything else.

and now it’s all he can think about. you’re not here. and you didn’t say anything. and he knows, he knows, he wasn’t entitled to that. he wasn’t entitled to anything. not your number, not your time, not being informed by you that you-

but still.

you could’ve.

he plays like usual that weekend. another assist. another win. but it feels off. like something’s missing from the locker room, something just out of view. like he’s waiting for someone to walk past the hallway window. waiting for a door to open. he doesn't tell anyone. he just keeps thinking about the last thing he said to you.

“you always this careful?”

“only with things that can break.”

and now you’re gone. just… gone. It’s as if you never existed to begin with.

it starts small. he lingers near the physio room longer than he should. doesn’t even mean to… just ends up there. stretching. adjusting his boots. re-tying laces that don’t need it.

he doesn’t ask about you. not out loud.

but his eyes flick to every unfamiliar face, waiting for one that isn’t new. one that knows how he takes his tape. one that doesn’t ask dumb questions about his hydration levels.

nothing. no you. he walks past the back office once. twice. loses count. he’s not looking for anything. he’s just… walking.

right.

he heads down to the gym and ends up in the rehab space instead. says it’s quieter there, which it is, technically, but no one buys it. not even him.

trent clocks it first. “you good?” not casual. not teasing.

“yeah.”

trent just looks at him. then back at the turf. “you’re not looking for someone, are you?”

“no.” he says it fast. too fast.

trent doesn’t push. he never does. but his expression doesn’t soften either.

and jude’s stomach twists for no reason he’ll acknowledge.

—

the days bleed into each other. training, matches, press, recovery. all clockwork. his body holds up. his game sharpens. stats improve. he’s doing well; no one can say he’s not. but his head feels... loud.

he doesn’t notice it until it’s matchday and he looks up after a warmup and expects to see you near the bench; clipboard, curls, no expression– and it just hits that he’s still doing it.

still looking.

still expecting. why?

you’re not his. you were never his. you patched him up, taped his ankle, touched his skin like it didn’t matter. then you left.

and he’s the one standing here like a dumbass, searching the crowd for a ghost.

it’s pathetic.

he goes out that night.

not with friends. not with teammates. with her.

an escort, apparently.

he doesn’t ask –not directly– but her name comes with a wink from the promoter and a subtle nudge from someone’s agent.

he’s not drunk, but he wants to be. he’s not smiling, but the cameras catch him like he is. his hand finds her waist because that’s what you do, right? when you’re trying to be seen. when you’re trying not to think about someone who isn’t there.

the girl is pretty. of course she is. she laughs at things he doesn’t say. touches him like she means it, even when he doesn’t move.

the flashes don’t stop all night. tabloids eat it up by morning.

“New Flame For Bellingham?”

“Jude Spotted Leaving A Club With Model-Turned-Socialite. Is It Love?”

“Real Madrid's Golden Boy Heating Up Off The Pitch Too.”

he scrolls through the headlines without reading them.

his eyes catch on the photos.

his own face looks like a stranger.

and it doesn’t fix anything.

the girl texts. a lot. he doesn’t answer.

she posts a picture from his kitchen. his jaw clenches. he hears someone at the training center mention her name; laughing, loud. he doesn’t say anything, just keeps taping his wrist like his skin is made of paper.

he’s tired. his game’s good. everything else is noise.

he showers later than usual one day, everyone else already gone. he sits on the bench with his phone in hand, screen dark.

no texts. no missed calls.

not from you.

he doesn’t even know your number.

god, that’s the worst part. he felt so understood by you. there was a connection, a mutual understanding, an overlooked intimacy there. he wonders if he’d ever have such moment of peace in silence with anyone else… ever again… it’s more than what meets the eyes of the rest.

all that time, all those glances, silences, that moment in the rehab room where your knees touched and his voice dropped; and he never asked.

because he thought he had time.

because he thought you’d still be there.

and now what?

you’re somewhere else, dealing with something real, and he’s here. scrolling through empty messages. lying to tabloids with a girl he doesn’t like. playing the best football of his career and feeling nothing when the whistle blows.

he misses you.he finally lets himself think it.

he misses you.

not just your voice. your presence.

the way you made everything quieter. clearer. like he was being seen in a way that wasn’t shiny or performative or loud. and now you’re gone. and he doesn’t even know why that matters so much. or maybe he does.

you’re a physio. you work with injured players. you did your job.

he’s not injured anymore.

so what does that make him now?

—

you don’t read tabloids.

but sometimes, they read you.

the headline shows up while you’re checking the weather. just a swipe left on your lock screen; no intention behind it.

“Jude Bellingham Spotted With Escort Again. Sources Say It’s Serious.”

you blink. the forecast still says 70% chance of rain.

you don’t click it. you don’t need to.

there are pictures, anyway. embedded in the preview.

his hand on her back. his head tilted close, like he’s saying something private. her laughing. him not.

you exhale through your nose. not bitter. not jealous. just… tired.

this, you think, is why i don’t.

don’t get close. don’t ask questions. don’t flirt back, even when the air is thick with it.

you’d seen it coming: the slow way his gaze shifted, how his interest had started to feel like a tug, like a thread you’d have to follow if you so much as looked too long.

you didn’t follow it. you walked away.

and still, it stung a little. not because he moved on. but because part of you thought he’d do that diligently. not with this… whatever. no point in mulling over spilled milk. which, in hindsight, is exactly why you needed the space.

they always move on.

footballers. artists. anyone used to being watched. they need attention like lungs need air. when you don’t give it, they find someone who will. you spent years learning how to keep your distance.

he’s not going to be the one to make you forget that.

—

returning is quiet. no drama. no announcement.

you’re just… there again.

clip your badge back onto your jacket. check the inventory. smile at the interns. pick up the schedule like you never left.

no one brings it up.

and that’s fine. better, even.

the first time you see jude, he’s walking out of the locker room, tugging his sleeve down over his wrist. you keep moving. he does too. your shoulders don’t brush. your eyes don’t meet.

you say nothing. he says nothing. and the weirdest part is; it’s fine.

he doesn’t seek you out. doesn’t ask about your family. doesn’t pull you aside like there’s something unresolved. he’s polite, distant, professional.

you match it. and maybe it should hurt, but it doesn’t. because this is the version of him you understand best.

star footballer. focused. unavailable.

you stay in your lane. handle your cases. keep your voice even. you do everything right.

and then… trent starts showing up.

it starts with a joke.

you’re rewrapping a knee and he passes by, mutters something under his breath; a joke about the new intern, about her labeling everything with her name like it’s a daycare center.

you don’t even look up. “maybe she’s just marking territory.”

he huffs. “sounds dangerous.”

you glance at him. “this place is dangerous. full of men with too much ego and too little sense.”

he grins. “good thing i’m humble.”

you raise a brow. “you? you can barely walk past a mirror without saluting it.”

“you watch me walk past mirrors?”

“i have to. you block the hall.”

he laughs. fully. loudly. the sound echoes.

you turn back to the knee you’re taping. don’t say anything else.

but trent lingers. leans on the table while you work. asks a few more questions. throws in a compliment about your technique. you side-eye him, and he grins wider, like he’s proud of himself for getting a reaction.

and here’s the thing… you don’t mind it. you don’t mind him.

he’s funny. soft-spoken when he wants to be. he listens more than he talks, which is rare in his world.

you’re not giving him anything. but you’re not shutting him down, either.

and that’s when you feel it.

someone watching.

you look up, not at trent, not at your patient.

across the room, jude is standing by the cold bath. towel over one shoulder, earbuds still in. staring.

not at the clock. not at the wall.

at you.

his expression is unreadable. not angry. not even surprised. just… locked.

you look away first. not because you’re flustered.

because you don’t owe him anything.

—

the rehab room smells like eucalyptus gel and overripe bananas.

trent makes a face the second he walks in.

"swear this place always smells like someone juiced a forest."

you don’t look up from the ankle you’re icing. “complain any louder and i’ll shove a compression sock down your throat.”

he smirks. kicks the door shut behind him with the heel of his boot. “don’t threaten me with a good time.”

you glance up at that. finally.

his damp shirt stuck to his chest. flushed from training, but still grinning like he’s just gotten away with something.

“i’m working,” you remind him, motioning to the player on the table.

trent shrugs. “i’m not stopping you.”

he walks over anyway. plants himself on the edge pf the treatment bench across from you. leans back on his hands like he’s got all the time in the world.

you roll your eyes. "if you're trying to get hurt just to spend more time in here, i’ll break your knee myself."

he grins. "what if i just like the company?"

"what if i just like peace and quiet?"

his laugh is soft, low. like it slips out before he can catch it.

the player you're working on raises an eyebrow but wisely says nothing. trent watches your hands move: steady, practiced, pressing the gel into skin with slow circles.

"serious question," trent says, biting into an energy bar he pulled from god knows where. "if someone were to, i don’t know, accidentally pull a hamstring doing the robot, would you still treat them?"

you don’t miss a beat. “i’d treat them like the idiot they are.”

“so… yes?”

"no."

he grins again. crumples the wrapper and lobs it into the trash from across the room.

misses.

you shake your head. “athleticism really peaking today, huh?”

he places a hand over his heart. “low blow.”

“deserved.”

the back-and-forth is easy. comfortable.

a current running under the surface, but not disruptive. just there.

your lips tug upward, the smallest smile. barely-there. but trent catches it. you see it in the way his eyes shift; soft at the edges now, teasing less, watching more.

“you smile like it’s illegal,” he says, quieter this time.

you pause, fingers still pressed to the ice pack. “maybe it is.”

“then arrest me. i wanna see it again.”

you blink. slow. not flustered… just… thrown for a second.

and that’s when jude walks in.

he’s not loud about it. just steps through the open door, towel in hand, shirt half-tucked. sweat dripping down his face and neck, jaw set.

he doesn’t speak. doesn’t interrupt.

but he doesn’t leave either.

he walks past the table where you’re working, like he’s heading for the cabinets, but his eyes track the two of you the entire way. slow. unreadable.

your shoulders stiffen just slightly. you feel the air shift.

trent doesn’t turn. but he knows. you can tell by the way his tone flicks sharper.

“you good, mate?” he calls without looking.

“fine,” jude says. voice flat. measured. “didn’t realize this was your therapy session.”

you don’t say anything. you keep adjusting the ice.

trent smiles, still leaning back, still relaxed. “not mine, bro. just vibing.”

you finally glance up at jude.

his eyes meet yours. brief. fleeting. and then gone.

he grabs a roll of tape off the shelf. doesn’t need it. doesn’t even check the color. just something to hold.

“didn’t know you were into vibes now,” jude mutters. almost to himself.

trent’s smirk doesn’t falter. "evolving. character development."

you straighten up. your hands are cold from the ice. your fingertips numb. "if you two want to start a podcast, do it somewhere else," you say, voice dry.

trent stands, stretching. grins down at you.

“only if you’re our first guest.”

you ignore him. but your lips twitch again.

jude sees it.

of course he does.

sees how you don’t brush trent off the way you used to brush him off? not icy, not deflecting. just present. comfortable. maybe even open.

he clenches the roll of tape in his fist, too hard, like it’s the tape’s fault.

you turn back to your patient.

trent throws a mock salute and heads out, humming something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like the chorus to a bad 2000s r&b song.

jude lingers a few seconds longer.

you don’t look at him. you feel him watching you; jaw tight, eyes narrow. but you don’t give him anything.

eventually, he leaves.

no words. no glances back. just silence, echoing like the end of something he doesn’t know how to name.

and then… trent shows up early again. again.

you’re already in the physio room, cataloguing restock supplies, earbuds in but music off. just needed the noise.

he leans on the doorframe like he’s been there for a while.

you glance up. “you’re early.”

he smiles. “you say that like you’re not happy to see me.”

“maybe i’m not.”

he takes a step closer. “but maybe you are.”

you snort, not looking at him. “you always this cocky or is it just around me?”

“just you,” he says, without missing a beat.

you finally turn. he’s watching you — but not in the way most people do. not waiting to get something. just… watching.

you reach into the drawer for more tape, and he catches your wrist. not hard. not even sudden. just enough to make you pause.

“hey,” he says. softer. “you alright?”

you blink. “why wouldn’t i be?”

he tilts his head. “you’ve been acting like nothing gets to you. but you look tired. and not the good kind.”

you hesitate.

and then you say, “my family stuff isn’t fully sorted yet.”

he nods. “that why you disappeared?”

“mm.”

he doesn’t ask more. doesn’t push. he just squeezes your wrist –briefly– and lets go.

“thanks for not prying,” you say quietly.

“thanks for letting me in, a little.”

you look at him. really look at him. trent’s always been charming, sure; quick with a joke, easy with a smile. but lately, it’s quieter. more consistent. he shows up. he stays. you don’t know when that started mattering.

you sit down on the treatment bench, rubbing a knot out of your wrist. “you’re surprisingly decent, alexander arnold.”

he grins. “don’t let that get around.”

you raise a brow. “ruin the brand?”

“exactly.” and then, as he turns to leave, he says, almost like it’s nothing, “i’m glad you’re back.”

you say nothing.

but your smile follows him out.

—

jude sees it.

he sees everything. he’s standing by the water cooler, jaw set, breathing too slow for someone who didn’t just train. he watches trent walk out.

watches your head tilt in that way you do when someone catches you off guard. watches the faint curve of your mouth.

not big enough to be obvious, but too soft to be neutral. and something snaps.

you’re in the hallway when it happens.

he steps in front of you like he was waiting for this moment. “can we talk?”

you stare at him. “about?”

“don’t do that.”

“do what?”

“pretend you don’t know.”

you cross your arms. “jude, i’m working. unless you’ve torn something-”

“stop,” he says. sharp. almost low.

you go still. his eyes are dark. unreadable. voice tighter than you’ve ever heard it. “what’s going on with you and trent?”

your jaw tightens. “excuse me?”

“you heard me.”

you tilt your head. “you’re asking about my personal life now?”

he steps closer. “i just think it’s funny.”

“what’s funny?”

“how quick you turned,” he spits. “how cold you were with me. how you acted like i was something to avoid- like I was messing with you- and now what? trent breathes near you and you melt.”

you feel it in your chest; that hot, rising flare of fury. not from the jealousy. from the entitlement.

you step forward.

"you do not get to talk to me like that."

his expression cracks. “i cared. i tried. and you looked at me like i was-”

“what?” you interrupt. “like you were one of a hundred footballers who think they’re owed something because they flirt with their physio?”

he flinches.

but you’re not done.

“you do have a girlfriend, jude. or did you forget that somewhere between nightclub appearances and private yacht photos?”

he opens his mouth. nothing comes out.

you shake your head. “this-” you motion vaguely between you, “-was never anything. and you’re acting like i betrayed you.”

he finally says, voice low, “because you never looked at me like that.”

you stop.

his eyes are tired now. raw. none of the ego left. just hurt, bruised and bleeding underneath.

you could lie. you could say nothing.

but you don’t.

“you scared me,” you say softly. “you made everything feel dangerous. like if i gave you an inch, you’d burn the whole thing down. and i couldn’t afford that.”

he looks at you. really looks. for once, no mask.

you finish, “trent makes me feel safe.”

his shoulders drop. like something leaves him.

"right,” he says. voice flat. “got it.”

you step back. create distance.

“jude,” you add, voice gentler, “you’re allowed to be upset. but this? whatever it was? it was never yours to be angry over.”

he nods. once. “you’re right.”

his voice is hollow. quiet.

he walks away.

and this time, you don’t watch him go.

—

it’s jude’s idea. he brings it up like it’s nothing:

a casual dinner. new place, soft lights, good food.

he invites trent first. then tosses the invite to you like an afterthought, voice too smooth, like he’s trying not to think about how it’ll land.

you pause for a beat too long. then say, “sure,” like it doesn’t matter.

trent grins. “we’ll come.”

we.

you ignore the way jude’s jaw ticks at that.

barely.

you show up with trent.

early, for once.

he opens the door for you without making a thing of it, hand resting at the small of your back just long enough to remind you he’s there.

you’re laughing when you walk in. something he said in the car. something about your music taste being “criminally chaotic.”

jude’s already at the table.

he stands when you arrive. polite, smiling, collected. his date, ailyn, sits beside him. model-perfect, aloof, bored already. she doesn’t look at you twice.

you slide into your seat across from jude.

trent takes the chair beside you. close, but not too close.

his knee brushes yours under the table. you don’t move.

the restaurant is warm. golden. brass fixtures. candlelight that flickers with every slow exhale.

trent reads the menu out loud with fake ‘posh’ accents. tries to guess what half the ingredients mean. gets it wrong, and owns it. makes you laugh so hard you nearly spill your drink.

he leans in every time you speak. like he wants to catch every word before it hits the air.

you let him.

across from you, jude hasn’t said much. he’s sipping his drink too fast. nodding at things without reacting.

ailyn's talking, but his eyes are on you. not obviously. just… lingering. a beat too long, a breath too slow.

he watches the way you glance sideways at trent. the way your shoulder tilts slightly toward him. the way your eyes crinkle when trent mutters something only you can hear.

when trent reaches to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear –slow, gentle, uunshoy– jude’s smile flickers.

barely.

but you catch it.

his jaw clenches. his knuckles tighten around his fork.

you pretend not to see.

trent offers you the last bite of dessert without hesitation. he scrapes the chocolate onto the fork, holds it out, smirking. “you have to try this. promise.”

you part your lips just enough to take it. your eyes don’t leave his.

and jude’s foot starts bouncing under the table. not loud. not noticeable. unless you’re already listening for it.

you are.

ailyn nudges him. “you good?”

he nods without looking away. “yeah. tired.”

a bit later, you excuse yourself for a moment- bathroom, just to breathe.

when you come back, trent is standing. pulling your chair back for you. you smile at him without thinking. thank him with your eyes more than your voice.

he brushes your hand as you sit. keeps talking. keeps looking at you like you’ve got all his attention.

jude watches it all.

watches you fold into trent like it’s natural. watches your smile reach places it never reached when he was on the receiving end of it.

and for a moment, just one, jude looks like he might say something. his lips part. his fingers twitch like they’re reaching for something he doesn’t have anymore.

but then the check comes. and he doesn’t speak. he signs it too fast. like he needs the moment to end before it kills him.

outside, the air is cold.

trent slips his jacket off and drapes it over your shoulders before you can object. his fingers linger at your collar for a second longer than necessary.

“warm enough?”

you nod. your throat’s tight, suddenly. he’s too gentle for your own good.

jude is standing near the curb with ailyn, who’s still talking. still texting. still very much not looking at him.

his eyes, though?

locked on you.

he watches as trent walks you to his car. watches you laugh again, quietly this time, head down, eyes soft.

you don’t look back.

you don’t need to.

you can feel him watching you. still.

and you don’t flinch.

trent drives you home.

the windows are down. city air curling in around your wrists as you lean on the edge of the passenger side door.

he keeps glancing over, one hand on the wheel, the other fidgeting on his thigh. he’s nervous. you can feel it before he says anything.

you’re quiet. not because you’re uncomfortable. just… full.

your skin still tingles where he touched you tonight. that soft moment when he handed you his jacket. the fork. the earring. the way his fingers skimmed your cheek like you were breakable.

he pulls up in front of your place, and for a second, neither of you moves.

you turn to thank him but he’s already looking at you.

“come here,” he murmurs.

you lean in without thinking.

his hand comes up to cradle your jaw, thumb barely brushing your cheekbone. his breath smells like dessert and mint and something sweeter you can’t name.

you’re so close you can feel the warmth of his breath on your lips. your eyes flick to his mouth, then back to his eyes. his thumb pauses. your breathing slows. and just before your lips meet- “wait,” he says softly, barely a whisper, eyes not leaving yours.

you freeze.

“can I ask you something first?”

you nod. barely.

he pulls back just a little, hand still on your face. “what are we doing?”

you blink. your stomach dips.

“i mean…” he breathes out a short laugh. “i like you. you know that, yeah?”

you nod again, slower.

“and it’s not just… this. flirting. touching. the looks,” he says. “i want to call you mine.”

your heart stutters. a part of you wants to say yes before he finishes the sentence. but then-

“i want people to know,” he adds, smiling like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “i don’t wanna sneak around. i want to post you. take you out properly. make it real.”

and there it is. your chest tightens. you pull back a little, his hand dropping from your cheek. “trent…”

he watches your expression shift. confusion flashes across his face. “what?”

you hesitate. “i don’t… do that,” you murmur. “public stuff.”

he furrows his brow, soft at first. “what do you mean?”

“i can’t be in photos with you. or stories. or interviews. i can’t be-” you pause. “a public figure.”

he blinks. you see it hit.

“but… you work with us. you’re already in the spotlight.”

“not like that,” you say quickly. “i’ve spent years staying behind the scenes. i know what it’s like when things go public. they’ll pick me apart, trent. they’ll say things. they’ll twist everything. i’ve seen it happen.”

he’s quiet. not angry. just… confused.

“but i’d protect you,” he says. “you know i would.”

you nod. “i know.”

“and you’re beautiful,” he says. voice firmer now, frustrated. “so beautiful. why would you hide?”

you bite your lip. your hands twist in your lap. “it’s not about being pretty,” you whisper. “it’s about being safe. i've already got lots of personal issues going on, trent.”

that hits something. you see it in his eyes. he leans back in his seat. rubs a hand down his face. “so what,” he says slowly, “i can be with you… but only in private?”

you open your mouth. close it again.

“i have to sneak out the back, never post you, never talk about you?”

“trent-”

“what’s the point, then?” he cuts in. not harsh,but disappointed. hurt. “what’s the point of all this if i can’t show the world who you are to me?”

your throat tightens.

he’s not yelling. he’s not pushing. he’s just asking.

but you don’t have an answer that won’t break something. so you sit there. silent.

he exhales, turns away slightly, jaw tight.

the gap between you feels bigger than it did all week.

you reach for the door handle. pause. “i like you,” you say, voice shaking. “i really do.”

“then say yes,” he murmurs. “be mine.”

you hesitate. and that silence is louder than anything else.

you open the door. step out. before you close it, you whisper, “goodnight.”

he doesn’t say it back.

you hear him pull away a few seconds later. your chest doesn’t stop aching for hours.