#jb7

The night was still pouring warmly over Dortmund, and the balcony of Jobe's apartment seemed suspended in the air, accomplice of a forbidden and sweet secret. The table was already marked by the raw movements of before, the smell of sex mixed with that of spilled wine, the breathing still heavy in both. But you didn't seem satisfied to stop there, the brightness in your eyes denounced that you wanted more, you wanted to prolong that promise of eternity with something that was only yours, done calmly, but still incendiary.

You slipped from his lap, still panting, and walked barefoot until you took the almost empty wine bottle, filling two glasses with the unpretentious gesture of someone who had already decided the next step. Jobe watched you, sitting on the balcony chair, your naked body shining with sweat, his cock still hard, resting only for seconds. Your way, on your back, the crumpled red dress falling from your shoulders, the skin marked by his hands, made his blood boil again.

You turned slowly, bringing one of the cups, and handed it to him with a malicious smile, before leaning on his lap, sitting on his strong thighs as if it were your natural throne.

-You haven't finished yet, right, honey?

You provoked, your voice low, dragged by the accent.

He raised his glass, his dark eyes fixed on you, and took a sip slowly, savouring the wine while feeling the heat of your pussy settling against his cock.

-Not even close to that...

He replied, hoarsely, the lazy smile denouncing how much he was about to get lost again.

You held his base with your delicate hand, slowly guiding the tip against you, rubbing first, wetting it even more with your moisture, until they both gasped in unison. Only then did you go down slowly, sitting on him for real, the body opening centimetre by centimetre, the moans escaping in the rhythm of penetration.

-Oh my God...- the moan escaped dragged, your head tipping back, your breasts rising and falling as you swallowed it all.- Fuck!

The boy squeezed your thigh hard, but he didn't hurry at all. He took the glass of wine to his mouth again, drinking while watching, fascinated, you settle completely on his dick, your hips going down until he was buried until the end.

-What a view, my love, you're a delight... -He murmured, panting, his eyes devouring every detail: the dress down, the beaks of the hard breasts, the belly contracted with the effort. -There's nothing more beautiful or better than that to get as a gift today.

You began to move, first slow, savouring, your hip spinning in an intimate ballet that made his cock throb inside. He drank another sip, his mouth stained with wine, while the other hand slid down your body, holding your waist tightly, sometimes going up to his breast, squeezing, twisting his nipple between his fingers, pulling out your loudest moans.

-Oh... Jobe... so deep, huh?

You rolled slowly, the wet sound of your bodies filling the night, each descent pulling out of him a deep moan, a hoarse sigh.

He dropped the glass, leaving it on the table, and grabbed your hips with both big hands, guiding the rhythm, but still keeping it slow, almost reverent. His organ went in and out with soft, wet pops, and you looked at him with half-closed eyes, your mouth ajar, completely surrendered.

-Look how you sit on me. -He whispered, sliding his hand to your clitoris, rubbing in firm circles while making you sit down again. -What a beautiful thing, my darling...

You moaned louder, your whole body shaking, your hip accelerating involuntarily. His vision of you riding on him, your dishevelled hair swaying, the brightness of sweat illuminated by the city light, it was like a perfect erotic painting. Jobe didn't know whether to look at your face, contorted with pleasure, or at the way the cock disappeared inside you with every movement.

-Just like that, babe, keep going! - You put your hands on his chest, ridding faster now, every beat making the sound of skin against skin echo on the balcony. -I'm going... I'm going to cum again...

He pulled your right breast to his mouth, sucking hard, biting until you screamed, and at the same time rubbed your clitoris mercilessly.

-Shout, Y/n... let all of Germany listen...

He snored against your skin, his cock stocking deep, your hips going down without stopping.

Your scream exploded when you came, your whole body contracting, squeezing him inside in an almost painful way, pulling out of him deep, hoarse moans, while struggling on top of him.

The younger Bellingham held you tightly, his hips cracking against yours, and soon came too, gushing hot, deep, the wine still burning in the mouth, but nothing compared to the heat of the cum inside you.

Both were glued, panting, you lying against his shoulder, sweaty, laughing softly, your hip still shaking with the final spasms. He took the glass once again, drank the last sip of wine and ran his stained lips down his neck, muttering.

- I don't know if it was the wine, you or the birthday party... but I've never tasted anything so good.

You laughed, tired, your fingers drawing lazy circles on his chest.

-Definitely, it was me.

Her English had improved, but not enough to process that without feeling a tightness in her chest. The new one. As if she were a replacement on an assembly line.

Her emotions blurred together, and without noticing, her body began to tremble. Anxiety started to grow beneath her skin, and Sarah felt as if she had just lost control of her own body. It was like everything in front of her was the view from the top of a giant roller coaster. The seat held her firmly in place, preventing any reckless reaction. And everyone around her watched from the front row as her world collided with reality.

She needed to breathe. Focus on something concrete.

How had she even gotten here?

The golden morning light filtered through the half-open curtains of the apartment in Sunderland, casting a soft pattern of light and shadow across the bedroom. Sarah woke slowly, still wrapped in the dreamlike feeling that had seemed to permeate every fiber of her being since the night before. For a moment, she wondered if it had all been real… that magical night, the gentle whispers, the warmth of Jobe’s arms.

Then her eyes focused on the foot of the bed.

A vibrant bouquet of sunflowers mixed with yellow daisies and a few orange wildflowers rested delicately on a small table that definitely hadn’t been there the night before. The flowers seemed to radiate their own light into the room, bringing warmth. Beside the bouquet was a handwritten note in careful script:

“For you to rest as long as you need. I’ll be back from training and hope to find you still here. - J”

Sarah felt her heart speed up, a wave of tenderness flooding her chest. Memories from the night before returned in vivid flashes: the way Jobe had looked at her when they finally allowed themselves to cross that invisible line that had separated them, his dark eyes intense like melted chocolate. The way he had murmured her name against her lips as if it were a prayer. The way his fingers had delicately traced the outline of her face, memorizing every freckle, every detail.

She could still feel the ghost of his touch, the way he had buried his face in the curve of her neck, breathing deeply as if he wanted to store her scent in his memory forever.

“You smell like home,” he had whispered.

And she had laughed softly, asking in her still hesitant English how home could have a smell if they had only just met.

The sound of footsteps outside the bedroom brought her back to the present. Sarah quickly pulled the sheet tighter around herself, feeling a mixture of nervousness and anticipation. Her light brown curls, with golden highlights that seemed to catch sunlight even in Sunderland’s gray weather, were scattered across the pillow like wild waves.

Jobe appeared in the doorway with two cups, still wearing the club’s training jacket. His hair was slightly damp from the quick shower he had clearly taken at the training center. There was something different in his expression, a softness that contrasted completely with the serious, focused posture he kept around everyone else.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he said, his voice still carrying the Birmingham accent she loved, even when she didn’t understand every word.

His eyes met hers, and Sarah noticed something different there—a determination mixed with… nervousness?

He walked over and placed the cups on the bedside table with almost reverent care before sitting on the edge of the bed. Their eyes met, and for a moment they simply watched each other in the comfortable silence they had learned to share.

“Sarah,” he began, his voice lower, softer than usual. He took her hand, lacing their fingers together. “Last night… when I asked you…” he paused, searching for the right words, speaking slowly. “Do you… understand? We are… together now?”

She bit her lip, processing. Together. Dating?

“You mean… boyfriend and girlfriend?” she asked hesitantly, her Brazilian accent wrapping around the English words.

A small, genuine smile curved his lips.

“Yeah. Exactly that.” He squeezed her hand. “You’re my girlfriend. I’m your boyfriend. Is that… okay?”

Her heart flipped in her chest. It was real. He was saying it clearly, slowly, making sure she understood.

“Yes,” she replied, feeling warmth rush through her body. “Is okay. Is… very okay.”

He broke into a grin that revealed Sarah’s favorite feature, the dimple in his cheek, and laughed, a sound she was starting to realize was only for her. He pulled her closer, resting his forehead against hers.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I don’t want any confusion. Not with you.”

They stayed like that for a moment, simply existing in the same space, until Jobe stood and held out his hand.

“Come. Breakfast. You need to eat.”

The kitchen was minimalistic, typical of a young player who spent more time in hotels and training centers than at home. Sarah sat on the counter while Jobe made toast and scrambled eggs with surprising efficiency.

“You cook?” she asked, genuinely surprised.

“A bit,” he replied, eyes still on the pan. “Mum made sure we knew how. Said we couldn’t survive on takeaway forever.”

“Your mum is… wise?” she tried, unsure if the word was right.

“Smart,” he corrected gently. “But yes. Wise works too.”

She liked these moments: when he wasn’t in a rush, when he spoke slowly enough for her to follow, when he corrected her without making it seem like she was wrong. With Jobe, her bad English didn’t feel like an impossible barrier. It just felt like… part of who they were together.

He set the plate in front of her, stealing a quick kiss on the top of her head before getting his own.

That was when his phone vibrated on the counter.

Once. Twice. Three times in quick succession.

Sarah automatically glanced at the glowing screen.

Jasmine: 3 new messages

Jobe picked up the phone, his eyes scanning the notifications. His expression didn’t change, that neutral mask he wore so easily. He typed something quickly, just a few words, before placing the phone back on the counter face down.

“Everything okay?” Sarah asked, trying to sound casual even as something tightened in her stomach.

“Yeah, just…” he paused, as if considering how much to explain. “Someone from before. Nothing important.”

Someone from before. An ex? A friend?

Sarah wanted to ask, but the words didn’t come. Partly because she didn’t know how to form the question in English, partly because she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer.

The phone vibrated again.

Jobe didn’t even look this time, but Sarah noticed the line of tension that appeared along his jaw.

“Eat,” he said softly, pushing her plate a little closer. “Before it gets cold.”

She obeyed, but the doubt was already there, small and persistent, scratching at the back of her mind.

*

The apartment fell silent when Jobe cleared the last cups from breakfast. Sarah was still sitting on the counter, her legs gently swinging, her eyes following his movements with the attention she hadn’t yet learned to hide completely.

He looked out the window.

“Hm.” A low sound, almost to himself. “Sky’s clear.”

Sarah followed his gaze. Sunderland’s sky really did look different—not exactly blue, but clear enough to be worth commenting on. She had learned quickly that in this city, a clear sky was an occasion.

“Want to go for a walk?” he asked, turning to her. “Show you the neighborhood.”

“Yes.” She answered before thinking, then remembered. “But I need to…” She stopped, unable to find the word, gesturing vaguely at herself—her still-wild hair, the sleep clothes she was wearing.

Jobe looked at her for a second.

Then he simply turned back to the cups.

“Take your time,” he said. “No rush.”

No impatience. No hesitation from someone mentally translating what she said. He had understood before she finished speaking, and that small, nameless thing made Sarah stay on the counter a moment longer than she needed to, watching his broad back while he washed the cups with his back turned to her.

Then she went to get ready.

The streets were quiet. Shops still closed, one or two cafés just opening, a few people walking dogs that seemed more excited than their owners about the cold morning. The light painted everything with a soft golden tone, and Sarah thought that Sunderland, at that exact moment, looked almost magical.

They walked side by side, fingers intertwined, unhurried. Jobe pointed things out occasionally: the name of a street, a shop he frequented, a park she should see in the summer.

She absorbed every detail, storing them carefully in her memory like someone building something.

That was when he stopped.

Sarah almost kept walking before realizing he had stayed behind. She turned, curious, and saw he was looking at the window of a closed shop..not inside, but at the reflection in the glass.

She followed his gaze.

It was the two of them. Her with her wild curls, the brown shirt under the oversized coat she had borrowed from him that morning. Him beside her, taller, broad-shouldered, wearing that quiet expression he reserved for when he wasn’t being anyone in particular. Their hands intertwined between them, visible in the reflection like a detail neither had planned.

Jobe stared at the image for a second.

Then he let go of her hand and, before she understood what was happening, slipped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close with such natural ease it felt like he’d done it a thousand times.

She felt his warmth through the coat, the solidity of his arm around her, and froze for a moment, afraid any movement might break something.

He kept looking at the reflection. Said nothing.

Sarah looked too.

It was still the same two people… but now she was leaning against him, her head almost on his shoulder, and there was something in that image she couldn’t look at for long without feeling her chest tighten in a way that had no name in either language she knew.

“Come,” he finally said softly. “It’s cold.”

They kept walking, but now with his arm still around her shoulders.

And Sarah stored that reflection in her memory with the same care she had stored all the other small and enormous things from that morning.

The store had fallen a few blocks behind when Jobe suggested they stop at a café to warm up. Sunderland on a holiday had that specific kind of silence of a city that doesn’t quite know what to do with itself, and the café was almost empty; just the two of them at a table by the window, two teas that neither of them was really drinking.

Sarah rested her head on his shoulder, her phone in hand, trying to form a sentence in English that didn’t sound strange in any combination she tried. There was a word she wanted to use but didn’t know, something between saudade and longing, which English simply didn’t have, and she was trying to find the closest substitute.

“This one,” she said, showing him the screen.

Jobe took the phone, read the sentence, considered. His chin was almost on top of her head as he studied it. “Not quite,” he murmured, and began typing slowly, choosing each word with the same care she put into her questions.

Sarah stayed quiet, feeling the weight of his shoulder, the warmth, the solidity. He was still typing, focused, completely unaware of what she was seeing: the frame that had formed by itself in the space between them. The gray Sunderland light coming through the glass. Him, focused on the screen, that expression of concentration she had learned to recognize. And herself, head on his shoulder, visible in the corner.

She took his phone with one hand.

Framed.

Snapped.

Without announcing it. Without changing position. Without making it a moment, because it already was one, and making a ceremony of it would only ruin it.

Jobe felt the click, glanced up at the phone for a split second, and went back to what he was doing.

“Here,” he said, handing the phone back with the corrected sentence. “That’s closer.”

Sarah read it. Then looked at the photo in the gallery, still open on the screen.

She kept both; like something of theirs.

Back at the apartment, while Sarah was in the bathroom, Jobe absentmindedly picked up his phone from the counter.

The photo appeared among the others without warning.

He in profile, looking at the screen, his chin almost on top of her head. Followed by another, where he appeared absorbed in his phone. That one in particular… Sarah was visible in the corner of the frame, her curls, the coat matching the color of her skin, her head on his shoulder with that ease of someone completely at home. The light was strange, gray, but it illuminated them both at the same time. He wasn’t at his best angles. But there was something in the photo that he couldn’t name and couldn’t ignore.

He stood still for a moment with the phone in his hand.

Then he opened his private Instagram and posted. Two stories in a row, no captions on either. The café photo first: the one she had taken without ceremony, without announcing it, as if it were something small when it was anything but small. Then he went back to the camera roll, found the reflection of the two of them in the shop window that the camera had captured in passing, and posted that too.

Two photos. No words.

He was putting the phone away when Sarah came back from the bathroom.

“Can I see?” she asked, curious about how long he had been standing there.

He unlocked it and showed her.

Sarah was silent for a second, looking at the two images in the story. The café one: she had taken that, but seeing him choose it, post it without asking, without ceremony, felt different from having taken it herself. The reflection in the window: she hadn’t imagined he would like it, but there it was, the two of them frozen in front of the glass.

“You posted both,” she said. “Yeah.” He replied simply, as if it were obvious.

She handed the phone back, unable to say more, feeling her chest full of something that couldn’t fit in either English or Portuguese.

Then the phone vibrated.

Once. Twice. Three times in rapid succession.

Jasmine: 6 new messages

The same name from that morning stayed on the screen for a second before Jobe picked up the phone. He read it. Sarah watched his jaw tighten, that subtle line she had learned to recognize as the sign that something was costing him more than he let on. He typed something short, turned the screen, sent it. She only caught the word stop before the message disappeared.

He slipped the phone into his pocket.

Then he looked at Sarah and said, without preamble: “She saw the story.”

Few words. No elaboration. But there was something in that, in the way he offered the information without her asking, without her even being able to ask… something that loosened the knot in her stomach by a millimeter.

He took her hand. Firmer this time, his fingers intertwining with hers as if he needed something tangible to hold onto.

Sarah didn’t ask anything more. But the name Jasmine lingered there, small and insistent, scratching at the back of her mind while the apartment around them grew too quiet.

Time began to move faster than she wanted.

Jobe had to go; meeting with the technician, therapy session, the pre-game rituals she was still learning to understand. He prepared with the efficiency of someone who did this every day, moving through the apartment with a calm certainty that she found hypnotic to watch.

At the door, he paused.

“Do you have everything?” he asked. “The Wi-Fi password is on the fridge. There’s food. You can-”

“I’ll be fine,” she said.

He looked at her. Then, slowly, he lifted his hands and cupped her face, his large, warm palms against her cheeks, his thumb brushing lightly along the corner of her mouth as if he needed to memorize the contour. He stayed like that for a moment, just looking, as if he were storing this version of her to take along.

Then he kissed her forehead. Then her nose. Then her lips. Slow, unhurried, in a way that was by no means casual.

“I'll see you at the match,” he murmured against her mouth. “I'll be there,” she replied.

And she believed completely in what she was saying.

He left. The door closed with a soft, definitive sound.

Sarah stood in the same spot for a few seconds after the door shut, her fingers brushing her lips almost unconsciously, the apartment around her suddenly very quiet.

She tried not to think.

She tried for almost ten minutes. She lay on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, counting cracks that weren’t there, trying to turn the apartment’s silence into something comfortable. It didn’t work. The apartment smelled like him, carried his warmth, had the cups they had used still drying on the counter, and the name Jasmine lingered there, small and insistent, scratching at her mind.

She picked up her phone.

Just going to see who she is, she told herself. Just that.

The search started innocently. She typed Jobe’s name into X, looking for a clue, some context. The results were exactly what she expected: club posts, match analyses, transfer news. Pictures of him on the field with that closed-off expression she now knew wasn’t the whole of him. She scrolled. The results began to change tone.

She clicked on one fan thread. Then another. She ended up on an external forum without really noticing how she got there.

“anyone have info on Jobe’s girlfriend? has he ever been with normal people? he’s so private” “i think he dated that influencer a few months ago but never confirmed anything” “she has to be mixed race, comes from a family…” “he and his brother follow the same path and don’t get involved with normal people” “he never confirms anything, you’ll never know anything about his personal life”

Sarah stopped on the last one. Read it again. Never confirms anything. And she was there, in his apartment, with the key he had left on the counter without ceremony, with the photo he had posted without asking, with the I’m happy he had said to the circle of people who mattered to him.

She scrolled more.

Back to Twitter, this time on a well-informed fan account. The kind that compiled match dates, stats, club events with a dedication bordering on professional. And there, between one tactical analysis and another, was the post.

“reminder: Friday’s match will be special, Jobe’s birthday! the club will probably do something, stay tuned”

Sarah stopped. She reread it. Birthday.

She looked at the date in the corner of the screen. Looked back at the post. Did the math slowly, her heart already racing.

Today.

Jobe’s birthday was today. On the day of the match. And he hadn’t said anything. No mention, no hint, no moment when she could have asked. She had spent the whole morning with him, had slept on his shoulder in a café while he corrected her English sentences, and she didn’t know. Hadn’t even asked.

She started scrolling faster, trying to confirm, and then came the second blow: a reply in an older thread, from someone who clearly had contacts inside the club.

“from what I’ve heard, the family’s coming to Sunderland. could be a surprise party after the match, but it’s still a secret”

Sarah lowered her phone slowly.

Surprise party. Family. People close to him. The most she knew was his brother and his parents. A birthday would have more people who barely knew she existed. Or maybe they did now, after this morning’s story, after the two photos he had posted without ceremony as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Confusion came first. A strange suspended state, staring at the apartment ceiling, trying to organize the pieces. Jobe hadn’t mentioned it. The club knew. The family was coming. And she was going to show up at the match knowing nothing, having prepared nothing, not even able to say happy birthday at the right moment because she hadn’t even known the date until five minutes ago.

What kind of girlfriend doesn’t know her boyfriend’s birthday?

Then came the panic.

She sat on the bed, stomach churning, and started typing into Google with a sense of urgency she didn’t fully understand. What do you get a football player who probably has everything?

The results popped up: watches, perfumes, personalized items. She closed the tab, none of that was possible in Sunderland on a holiday Friday with just a few hours before the match. She opened another tab. Closed that one too.

She sat still with her phone in her hand for a moment.

Then she opened FaceTime and called Mia.

The video connected on the second ring, which meant Mia was at home, probably on the sofa with her laptop, probably in pajamas even though it was almost noon. Her face appeared on the screen, slightly confused, hair tied messily on top of her head.

“Sarah?” Mia blinked at the camera. “You okay? You’re at… the house…” She paused, tilting her head. “Wait. Where are you?”

“At Jobe’s apartment,” Sarah said in Portuguese, feeling the physical relief of being able to use her own language, not having to search for words, being able to speak fast. “Mia, I need help.”

“At the apartment…” Mia sat up straighter. “Okay. What happened?”

“Today is his birthday.”

Silence.

“And?” Mia asked cautiously.

“And I didn’t know.” Sarah ran a hand across her face. “I don’t know since when, I don’t know anything, I just found out from a fan’s Twitter search, Mia, on a forum, and apparently the whole family is coming today and there might be a surprise party after the match and I’m going to show up empty-handed knowing nothing and not being able to talk properly to anyone because my English…”

“Stop.” Mia raised a hand. “Breathe.”

Sarah breathed. Badly, but she breathed.

“Okay.” Mia was in problem-solving mode now; Sarah recognized that face. “First: are you sure it’s today?”

“The post said Friday. Today is Friday.”

“And he didn’t say anything?”

“Nothing.”

Mia made an expression Sarah couldn’t fully read. “Maybe he doesn’t want to do anything. Maybe it’s a normal birthday for him.”

“The family is coming, Mia.”

“Okay, fair point.” Mia bit her lip, thinking. “Gift. You need something. What’s near his apartment?”

Sarah stood and went to the window, looking down at the street below. Shops. Some open, most closed because of the holiday. Nothing that felt right, nothing that felt enough.

“Regular shops. Nothing special.”

“What do you know about him? Things he likes, things he’s mentioned.”

Sarah fell silent. She knew so much about him. The way he spoke slowly when he wanted her to understand, the way his jaw tensed when he was holding something back, the smell of the coat she’d returned in the morning. She knew he liked strong coffee and made scrambled eggs with surprising efficiency. She knew the dimple only appeared when the smile was real.

But what did he like to get as a gift? What made his eyes light up in a store?

“I don’t know,” she said, and the words felt heavier than they should.

Mia looked at her through the screen for a moment with that soft expression that came before honesty. “Sarah. How long have you been dating him?”

“Since yesterday.”

Silence.

“Since yesterday,” Mia repeated.

“Officially since yesterday.”

Mia closed her eyes for a second. When she opened them, there was something between relief and exasperation on her face. “You don’t have to know his birthday. You barely have to have a gift. You’ve been dating for less than twenty-four hours.”

Sarah knew Mia was right. The rational part of her knew it clearly.

The irrational part of her was staring at the apartment, at the cups on the counter, at the sunflower note still on the little table, at the key he had left without ceremony, and thinking that since yesterday wasn’t the whole story. The whole story was longer and more complicated, and she was going to show up at that match with his family there, and she wouldn’t know what to say in English, and she’d look exactly like the forum said she was without even knowing she existed there.

A normal girl.

“What if I show up there and seem like I don’t care?” she asked quietly.

Mia looked at her through the screen for a long moment.

“You showed up,” she said finally. “You’re here. You’re in his apartment in a city that’s not yours, in a country that’s not yours, with a language that isn’t fully yours yet.” A pause. “That already means something, Sarah.”

Sarah didn’t answer. She kept looking out the window at the shops below, her phone warming in her hand, her stomach still twisted but a little less than before.

She had no gift. No plan. No perfect words in English for the moment that was coming.

But she was there.

For now, that would have to be enough.

*

She needed to breathe. To focus on something concrete.

The phone was still warm in her hand, as if the entire afternoon were still stored inside it. The forum, the fan post, Mia’s voice saying you can do it! with that calm certainty Sarah had tried to carry down the stadium corridor, down the steps, to the seat that, she now realized, had belonged to someone else.

She exhaled slowly.

The pitch was green and bright under the lights. Somewhere down there, Jobe was playing, and she had seen it, had felt it at the exact moment it happened—the bad pass in the seventh minute. She had seen him nod afterward. She had seen his eyes find the stands for a second before returning to the game.

He knew something was off.

Next to her, Priya still smiled with that smile that gave nothing away.

The new one.

Sarah straightened her shoulders. Looked at the field. At his number among the other players, at the way he moved with that certainty that existed only here, at the version of him the whole world saw and that she now knew wasn’t the full version.

She had no gift. No right words in English for what was coming after the game. Didn’t know what to say to his family, to the people in his circle, to the woman beside her with the ambiguous smile and too much information.

But she was there.

And the match wasn’t over yet.

Sarah saw the family before they saw her.

Jobe’s father, Mark, was the first to hurry across the row, and when his eyes landed on her, the smile appeared even before he reached her. It was the same Manchester smile, the kind that filled the whole face and didn’t ask permission.

“There she is.” He opened his arms without ceremony, and Sarah let herself be hugged with that specific relief of finding familiar territory in the middle of a day that had already been too long. He was warm in the same way Jobe was warm, the same solidity, but without any of the reservations. “Good to see you, Sarah. You good? You finding everything okay?”

“Yes,” she replied, and this time the English didn’t falter. “Good to see you too.”

His mother arrived behind him, with that posture Sarah had learned to read in Manchester: it wasn’t coldness, it was measurement. She evaluated things before committing to them, and Sarah had realized that included people. The hug she gave was real but contained, her hands firm on Sarah’s shoulders for a second before letting go.

“Sarah.” The name on her lips sounded like an observation. Not bad. Just honest.

“Hi, Denise.” Sarah answered, leaving the rest in the air, because she had learned in Manchester that filling the silence with Jobe’s mother usually didn’t help.

‘‘You good? Been a while.’’ ‘‘I’m good, thank you for asking. Hope you are too. It has been a while.’’

Jude appeared over his father’s shoulder with that lightness the brother carried more carefully. “Alright?” he said simply, and it was the kind of greeting that was already an answer.

The woman with dark hair accompanying him stayed a step behind. Sarah looked at her for a second, trying to find some entry point, a return smile, any opening. She found none of the three. She was watching the field with a very specific attention for someone whose boyfriend wasn’t on it, and didn’t glance at Sarah once.

Sarah decided not to try again.

The others who had come along greeted with the familiarity of someone who already knew who she was from the morning story but was still calibrating what that meant. Names she tried to remember and probably lost half of. Faces that smiled with that particular curiosity of someone piecing together a story.

Mark stayed by her side while everyone settled in, and there was something in that small, deliberate gesture that loosened the knot in her stomach a little. He didn’t have to stay. He chose to.

“He’s been good,” Mark said quietly, eyes on the field. He didn’t elaborate. But the tone said enough.

Sarah looked at the field too. At his number among the other players, at the way he moved with that certainty that existed only here.

“Yeah,” she replied. “He has.”

-

On the field, Jobe saw.

He saw his father arrive before everyone else, saw the hug, saw Sarah relax a fraction in that embrace the way she did when she found something familiar in the middle of the unfamiliar. He saw his mother right behind, contained as always, and saw Sarah leave the silence in the air without trying to fill it, which meant she had learned something in Manchester.

He saw Ashlyn turn her gaze to the field.

He registered it. Stored it. Closed it away.

The game continued, and he had ninety minutes to do what needed to be done here. The rest would wait until later, when he could actually see her face, when the entire stadium stopped existing and it was just the two of them again.

For now, he played.

But his eyes returned to the stands between plays, locating her among the family, measuring what he could see from here and what he would need to understand later.

She was standing. She was responding when someone spoke to her. Her father was by her side.

It was enough for now.

*

The final whistle blew, and the stadium erupted.

Sarah stood with everyone around her, the noise coming from all sides at once, and for a second she forgot the birthday, forgot Priya, forgot the whole morning, and just watched the field where Jobe was being hugged by his closest teammate, his head thrown back in a laugh she rarely saw but immediately recognized.

The goal had been in the second half. Fifty-eight minutes, a pass she had watched leave his foot with seemingly impossible precision, crossing the entire field to find his teammate in the right position, and the stadium had risen as if it were a single organism. Mark had shouted beside her with a satisfaction she felt in her chest. Even Denise had applauded more strongly than usual.

Sarah had applauded too, and it had been real.

Now the field was full of players and coaching staff and the kind of organized chaos that came with a win, and she stayed in place, waiting, watching Jobe greet the opponents with that quick formality of someone already thinking about the next move.

That’s when he looked toward the stands.

Their eyes met for the second time that afternoon, but this time it was different. This time he was smiling, not the big open smile of his father, but that small, genuine smile with the dimple on his cheek, the one that was just hers, and he pointed upward with a discreet gesture that said wait.

She waited.

-

The stadium corridors smelled of sweat and adrenaline and that specific kind of relief that comes after a win. Sarah stayed with the family while they waited, Mark telling some story about a game from years ago with the same energy of someone reliving it, and Denise listening with that expression Sarah was beginning to understand as affection disguised as patience.

Jude was on the phone, leaning against the wall. Ashlyn was beside him, looking at her own phone.

Sarah stayed close to her father.

When Jobe appeared down the corridor, still with wet hair from his quick shower, the club tracksuit replacing his uniform, his father was the first to go to him, with that hug of someone proud but who doesn’t need to say it out loud. They said something to each other, which caused both of them to laugh loudly. Denise came next, more contained, placing her hand on her son’s face for a second before letting go.

“Good game,” she said simply. “Thanks, Mum.”

Jude gave a light punch to Jobe’s shoulder, which Jobe returned in kind, and then Jobe’s eyes found Sarah over his brother’s shoulder.

He approached slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, and stopped in front of her.

“You okay?” he asked quietly. “Yes,” she replied, and this time it was true enough.

He looked at her for a second with that expression of someone measuring something he won’t ask about now, in the middle of the corridor, with the family around. Then he draped his arm over her shoulders with the same naturalness as when he had stopped in front of the shop window that morning.

“We’re going to stop by the apartment first,” he said, louder now, for everyone. “Meet you there in an hour.”

-

At the apartment, the silence was a physical relief.

Sarah stood in the middle of the living room for a moment, just breathing, letting the stadium noise fade away gradually. Jobe went straight to the bedroom, his voice reaching her as he changed clothes.

“You sure you’re okay?” “I am.” She answered in Portuguese without realizing it, then corrected herself.  “I’m okay. Just… a lot.” “Yeah.” A pause. “It usually is.”

Sarah opened the suitcase she had left leaning against the wall since she arrived. She had packed a set of clothes that fit, something she had thrown in almost without thinking in Manchester, and now she was glad for that version of herself who had decided to be cautious. It wasn’t perfect for what was coming, but it was enough. More than what she was wearing.

She was changing when Jobe came back into the living room, already ready, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, watching her dig through the suitcase for her shoes.

“There’s something I should tell you,” he said. Sarah looked up. “Ashlyn.” He said the name with a very specific neutrality, the kind that cost something. “I don’t like her.” Sarah was quiet for a second. “Okay.” “Not trying to make things weird. Just…” he ran a hand over his face. “She’s not good for Jude. And she has a way of making people feel small without ever saying anything directly.” A pause. “I saw her at the stadium. With you.” “She didn’t say anything.” “That’s the thing,” he said. “She never does.”

Sarah looked at him for a moment. There was something in the way he had chosen to tell her before the party instead of after, in the way he had offered the information as if she deserved to be prepared, that reminded her of that morning with the name Jasmine on the screen.

She saw the story.

He always told her without her needing to ask. “Thanks for telling me,” she said.

Sarah was folding the clothes she had taken off when she remembered. Not that she had really forgotten. The birthday had been there all day, pulsing in the background of everything, but the stadium, the family, Priyanka, and Ashlyn had piled on top, and she had left it for the right moment.

The right moment was now.

Jobe was in the bedroom changing when she went to the suitcase and pulled out the small item she had wrapped hastily at a pharmacy in the only paper she could find, pink with little stars, completely inappropriate and completely honest.

She stood in the doorway of the bedroom holding the package. “Baby.”

He turned. Shirt halfway on, arms still in the sleeves, froze when he saw what she was holding. “What’s that?”

“Parabéns,” she said first in Portuguese, because some things needed to come in the right language before the other. Then she breathed. “Happy birthday.”

He froze completely for a second. Then laughed. Not the polite laugh he used with the world, but that low, genuine laugh she had learned to recognize as fully his. The dimple appeared. His shoulders relaxed.

“How did you know?” he asked. “X.” She said simply. He laughed again, running a hand over his face. “Of course.” “Why didn’t you tell me?” She tilted her head. Not an accusation. Just the question that had been waiting all day to be asked. He considered it for a second with that honesty she had learned to expect from him. 

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “I just… didn’t think about it. It’s just a birthday.” “It’s not just a birthday.” “It is, though.” He crossed the room to her, eyes on the pink, starry package. “What is this?” “Open it.”

He took it carefully, which she found funny given its size, and opened it slowly. The pink paper fell to the floor between them. He looked at the item in his hand for a moment.

It was a small Darth Vader figure, the kind that fit in the palm of a hand, found in a novelty shop three streets from the apartment, miraculously open on a holiday. It wasn’t expensive. Not particularly rare. But it was Star Wars, the movie they had watched together that night in Manchester before everything changed, before that invisible line between them finally crossed.

Jobe looked at the figure for a moment far too long to be casual. “Sarah.” His voice was different. Lower.

“I know it’s small,” she began. “I didn’t have much time and everything was closed and I found this and I thought-”

“It’s perfect.” He said, and the tone left no room for her to disagree.

She closed her mouth.

He lifted his eyes from the figure to her, and there was something in that expression she couldn’t fully name but felt in her chest in a way that had no translation in either language.

“Thank you,” he said. Simple. No elaboration. The way he said the things that truly mattered.

She nodded, feeling her face heat up, and went to grab her coat to leave before it became even more obvious how much that small pink-and-starry moment had cost her.

His hand arrived first. Not on the coat. On her wrist. Light, just enough to make her pause, to make her turn.

Jobe stood in the middle of the bedroom with the Darth Vader figure still on the little table behind him and that expression she had learned to recognize as him making a decision. There was no rush in it. There was certainty.

“We have time,” he said. She looked at him. “The party-” “We have time,” he repeated, quieter this time.

She didn’t reach for her coat.

He crossed the room slowly, without urgency, as if he knew she wasn’t going anywhere, and when he got close enough for her to feel his warmth, he stayed like that for a moment, just looking, those dark eyes like melted chocolate that she had learned not to stare into for too long without losing her train of thought.

His hand rose from her wrist to her face, his thumb brushing her cheek with a delicacy that didn’t match the size of his hands but was completely him.

“Happy birthday to me,” he murmured, and she laughed before she could hold it back.

The laugh died when he kissed her.

It wasn’t the goodbye kiss from the morning, slow and unhurried. It was different. It carried the whole day inside it: the game, the goal, the stadium corridor, the pink-and-starry figure, the name Jasmine, Ashlyn turning her face, the father saying good things, all good things with that smile that filled his entire face. It held everything that had gone unsaid since the door had closed that morning.

She put her hands on his chest. Felt his heart racing beneath the shirt, which surprised her, because Jobe always seemed so contained, so in control.

“We’re going to be late,” she said against his mouth, without making any move to pull away. “I know.” He didn’t pull away either.

The coat fell to the floor at some point she couldn’t pinpoint.

*

The apartment was quiet in that way it only gets after something changes.

Sarah lay there for a moment, the apartment ceiling above her, her breathing returning to normal, the whole day weighing differently now. Lighter. More real.

Jobe was beside her, his arm under her head, looking at the same ceiling.

The silence was comfortable. The kind of silence that didn’t need to be filled.

But Jobe had taken down his barriers.

She was the first to speak.

“Ashlyn.” She said the name carefully, testing its weight. “At the stadium. She didn’t say anything, but…”

“I know,” he said.

“Is it always like that?”

“Yeah.” A pause. “She's been like that since Jude brought her around. Never says anything. Just… makes you feel like you’re in the wrong room.”

Sarah stayed quiet for a second. “It worked.”

He turned his head to her. “What?”

“It worked.” She repeated. “For a moment, I felt it. That I was in the wrong place.” She looked at the ceiling. “And then Priya talked about the seat I was in.”

Jobe stayed still.

“That it was someone else’s seat, something about me being the new one,” she continued, her voice calmer than she expected. “That she always sat there.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose. “Priya talks too much.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” He didn’t hesitate. “But it doesn’t matter.”

“It mattered to me.”

He turned toward her, propping his elbow on the pillow to look at her face.

“Sarah.” His voice was low, direct, without detours. “It’s past. All of that is past. I didn’t let many people in there, didn’t let many people close.” A pause. “She knew that and used it when she could.”

“Priya?”

“Jasmine.” He said. “Priya just repeated it without understanding the weight.” His eyes met hers. “That seat is just a seat, Sarah. You’re the first person I actually want there.”

She looked at him for a long moment.

“Okay,” she said finally.

“Okay?” he repeated, in that tone asking whether it was a real okay or a survival okay.

“Real okay,” she said, answering the question he hadn’t asked aloud.

The small smile appeared. The dimple too.

They stayed silent for a while longer, then Jobe stood first, holding out his hand to her. She took it. They got ready slowly, the movements unhurried and domestic, her fixing her hair in front of the mirror while he looked for his shoes, both occupying the same space with the ease of people who had done this before.

When she returned to the bedroom already ready, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, looking at the Darth Vader figure on the little table with an expression she couldn’t fully name.

He lifted his gaze when she entered.

Then he grabbed her arm without ceremony, until she was sitting on his lap, her back against his chest, both ready to go somewhere neither of them was in a hurry to reach.

“Better?” he asked near her ear.

She looked around the room. At the Darth Vader figure on the table. At the coat on the floor that neither of them had picked up yet.

“Better,” she confirmed.

He stayed like that for a moment, his chin almost resting on her head, arms around her with that solidity she had learned to recognize as completely his.

Then: “We should go.”

“We should,” she agreed.

Neither of them moved for another thirty seconds.

-

The party was in a private restaurant, the kind of place that didn’t need to try to look expensive because it simply was. Sarah noticed it as soon as they entered, from the way people were dressed, the low deliberate lighting, the long tables with arrangements someone had clearly thought through carefully.

She paused for a second at the entrance, calibrating.

Jobe felt it. She hadn’t said anything, hadn’t changed her pace, but he felt it the same way he had in the stands, that instinct that had no name.

“You look good,” he said softly, near her ear.

“You’re just saying that-”

“I don’t just say things.”

She knew it was true. She took a breath. They went in.

They arrived at the party forty minutes late.

Jobe’s father saw them enter and opened that full-face smile without saying a word, which, Sarah discovered, was infinitely worse than if he had said anything at all.

Jobe ran a hand over his face, trying to hide that he was smiling.

She looked up at the ceiling.

Mark found them almost immediately, holding a glass and radiating that natural-energy vibe. “There they are.” He opened the smile that filled his whole face. “Birthday boy finally arrived.”

“Dad.” Jobe said in that tone that was half warning, half affection.

“What? It’s your birthday. I’m allowed.”

Denise was at a table with a few acquaintances, impeccable posture, the glass held with that precision Sarah had noticed in Manchester. She looked at the two as they arrived, her eyes passing over Sarah with that calm assessment that still revealed nothing.

Jude was on the other side of the restaurant. Ashlyn next to him, her hand on his arm, looking toward the entrance as Jobe and Sarah came in.

Ashlyn’s eyes landed on Sarah for a second.

Afterwards, they left.

Jobe kept her by his side during the first hour, moving through the restaurant with the ease of someone who knows everyone, stopping here and there, introducing her with a naturalness that made no ceremony necessary.

“This is Sarah.” Simple. No elaboration, no title, no qualification. Just the name, said with a firmness that said enough about what she was to him.

She shook hands. Smiled. Answered questions in English with the vocabulary she had, and sometimes with the vocabulary she didn’t have but improvised. Some people spoke slowly when they noticed, which she silently appreciated. Others didn’t notice, and she learned to smile and nod at the right moment.

Mark appeared beside her periodically, like a watchful sentinel, and she realized it wasn’t accidental.

Jude passed by once, stopped to chat, asked about Manchester with that lightness that made everything easier. Ashlyn stayed two steps away during the entire conversation, eyes on her phone, and when Jude said goodbye and returned to the table, Ashlyn followed without a word.

Sarah said nothing.

Jobe, at her side, said nothing either.

But his hand found hers for a second, fingers pressing briefly before letting go, and she understood that it was enough.

It was toward the end of the night that Priya appeared.

Sarah recognized her before she even got close, the club scarf replaced by a dress that confirmed she knew exactly where she was and what she was doing. The smile was the same, that smile that gave nothing away.

“Happy birthday,” she said to Jobe, her eyes passing over Sarah with a curiosity she didn’t bother to fully hide. “Good game tonight.”

“Thanks, Priya.”

“Your assist was something.” She tilted her head. “How long have you two been together?”

The question came without warning, direct, the kind that left no room to dodge. Sarah felt her stomach tighten in an old reflex, expecting hesitation, expecting a vague answer, expecting the she’s a friend or we’ve been hanging out that turned everything into nothing.

Jobe didn’t hesitate.

“She’s my girlfriend,” he said. Simple. With the same firmness he had used saying this is Sarah to everyone that night, the same firmness he had used saying you’re my girlfriend that morning in the bedroom, slowly, to make sure she understood every word.

Priya looked at Sarah for a second.

Then she smiled, and this time Sarah could read the smile. It was real.

“Good,” Priya said. Just that. Then she turned to greet someone else and left.

Sarah watched the space where she had been for a moment.

Jobe was beside her, his arm brushing hers, looking around the party with that quiet expression she had learned to recognize as him being completely present.

“Okay?” he asked without looking at her.

“Yeah,” she replied.

And it was true.

-

The party was at the right rhythm when Sarah’s phone started buzzing.

A notification. She ignored it.

Two. Three. She frowned and pulled the phone from her pocket.

She didn’t recognize the first profile that had tagged her. Nor the second. Nor the third. They were all different, all unknown, all sending the same thing.

A photo from Jobe’s private story. The one at the café, her head on his shoulder, the gray Sunderland light spilling through the window, only her looking at the camera. The photo he had posted for his mother, for his brother, for the people he trusted.

Now it was everywhere.

The comments were already in the hundreds. Someone had connected the dots quickly: the kind of detective work fans did with frightening efficiency. The photo she had posted at the Sunderland match months ago, where he appeared celebrating the goal, though not the focus, was enough for anyone who knew where to look. His comments on her Instagram, that linda demais in Portuguese she had reread more times than she would admit aloud, now had hundreds of responses from people who weren’t her.

wait he commented in portuguese??? LINDA DEMAIS??? he called her ABSOLUTELY BEAUTIFUL??? jobe doesn't comment on anyone's photos i'm going to be sick who IS she someone find her

Someone had already found her. The tags came in succession, profiles she had never seen in her life invading an account with only a few photos from Manchester, a few from Brazil, nothing that begged for that kind of attention.

It didn’t matter. They were there anyway.

she was at the match she's brazilian? he posted her on his private and someone leaked it i'm-

She stared at the screen for a moment she couldn’t measure.

Then she looked up at Jobe across the room, laughing at something someone had said, completely unaware, phone in pocket, that the circle he had built with such care had been breached from the inside.

And she was in the middle of it without having asked to be.

The phone buzzed again in her hand. And again. And again.

She didn’t hear Jobe approach.

She only noticed when the party noise receded slightly, when his presence arrived close enough for her to feel the warmth before the touch. His hand rested lightly on the small of her back, the discreet touch of someone checking in without ceremony.

“Hey.” His voice came low, near her ear. “What’s wrong?”

She lifted her eyes from the phone.

He was looking at her with that expression: not the player, not the birthday boy, not the mask he wore for the world. The apartment expression. The morning. The café with the gray light. The expression of someone who had learned to read her before words.

She turned the phone toward him.

He froze for a second. Eyes scanning the screen, the comments, the tags, the photo that had left his private circle without permission. His jaw tensed in that subtle way she knew so well by now.

Mas a mão dele nas costas dela não se moveu.

“Okay,” he said finally, voice completely calm, the kind of calm that cost something. “I’ll handle it.”

“Jobe-”

“I’ll handle it.” He repeated, eyes locking on hers. Firm. Present. “You okay?”

She looked at him for a moment.

The phone continued buzzing in her hand.

“I don’t know yet,” she said honestly.

He nodded, as if that were the right answer, and the hand on her back pressed lightly before letting go.

Then he pulled his own phone from his pocket, glanced at the screen with that closed expression she had learned to recognize as him making a decision, and pocketed it again.

His eyes found hers.

“You asked me to be careful,” he said, voice low, with something in it she hadn’t heard before. Not exactly guilt. Closer to weight. “Someone in my circle did this. That’s on me.”

“Jobe-”

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said, tone leaving no room for her to pretend she wasn’t. “The age. What people are going to say.”

She didn’t respond, which was an answer in itself.

He looked at her for a moment. Then, with that certainty that was completely his, without hedging, without softening:

“I never cared about that. Not once.” A small pause. “That’s yours. Not mine.”

She felt something loosen in her chest that had been tight all day.

“When they find out,” he continued, “they’ll get the confirmation from me. On my terms.” His eyes never left hers. “But I need to know you’re okay with that. With all of it.”

Her phone buzzed in her hand.

She looked at him.

For the twenty-year-old who sometimes felt older and sometimes felt exactly that. For the player the whole world thought it knew, who didn’t let anyone see how he spoke slowly when he wanted to make sure she understood, how he helped her with her English lessons, how he made his world perfect for her.

For the man who didn’t let anyone get close, and had let her.

There were nearly eight years between them, and a whole ocean of language, culture, and context. None of that had mattered on the first night in Sunderland, at the Manchester match, or in the apartment with the Darth Vader figure wrapped in pink star-patterned paper. It had mattered to her, silently, in the hours she spent alone with her thoughts, the forum open on her phone, and the questions she didn’t know how to ask in English.

But to him, it had never mattered. Not once.

And there was something in that she was still learning to receive.

“Okay,” she said finally. “I trust you.”

He didn’t respond with words. He tilted his head, slowly, and kissed her. It wasn’t long. It was firm, present, the kind of kiss that said I’m here without a single word.

When he pulled back, his lips lingered near hers for a second before he spoke, voice low enough to be completely hers alone.

“Trust me. I’ll handle it.” A pause, and then the small smile appeared.. the dimple and all. “But good that they know you’re mine.”

Her phone buzzed again in her hand.

And this time, she didn’t look.

dividers by @cafekitsune

pictures from pinterest and ig

Winter break always stripped things down too far.

No packed schedule. No constant travel. No noise loud enough to drown out what Jobe had been avoiding. Snow pressed softly against the windows of his family home, the world slowed to a pace he wasn’t used to—and didn’t like.

Jobe stood in the kitchen, phone in his hand, staring at a message he hadn’t opened.

💕:Miss you. When can I come over?

A heart replacing her name. Earnest. Patient.

He locked the screen and placed the phone face-down on the counter.

His mum noticed immediately.

“You’re doing that again,” she said.

“Doing what?” Jobe replied, not looking up.

“Like the phone’s offended you.”

He exhaled. “I’m tired.”

“You’ve been tired all week.”

Snow drifted past the window. Quiet filled the space between them.

“Is she coming over later?” his mum asked.

He hesitated. “She asked when”

“And?”

“I don't know, maybe when I'm less tired..”

That was enough for his mum to sit across from him.

“You don’t say ‘maybe’ when you’re excited, and you especially don't make an excuse that you're too tired for her to come over..”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means you’re somewhere else,” she said calmly.

“You used to talk about her. Now you talk around her.”

Jobe leaned back, jaw tight. “She hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“I know,” his mum replied. “That’s the problem.”

He stared at the table. “I care about her.”

“But you’re not in love with her.”

The words landed clean. No accusation. Just truth.

Silence stretched.

“You still talk to her,” his mum added.

He didn’t ask who.

“She’s my agent,” he said. “We barely see each other. Mostly calls. I’m in Germany. She’s in England.”

“And you never miss those calls,” his mum said. “Even when you’re busy. Even when your girlfriend’s right there.”

That stung.

“She lived with me in Germany,” Jobe admitted quietly. “She knows how this life works. She knows when I’m lying.”

His mum softened. “And your girlfriend doesn’t?"

“No.”

“Do you love her?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

“I don’t want to waste her time,” he said finally.

“Then don’t,” his mum replied. “And stop pretending distance erased what you never finished.”

---

The breakup was calm. Almost too calm.

They sat across from each other, both already knowing.

“You’ve been distant,” she said. “I didn’t want to say anything, but…”

“I know,” Jobe replied. “You deserve someone who’s fully here.”

Her eyes searched his face. “Is there someone else?”

“Yea,” he said honestly. “Not recently. But… yes.”

She nodded slowly. “I thought so.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know,” she said quietly. “You look like someone who never let go.”

They ended it cleanly. Painful, but peaceful.

That night, Jobe booked a flight to London.

---

The knock on your door is unexpected enough that you almost don’t answer it.

When you do, your brain stalls.

Jobe stands there like he belongs—hands in his coat pockets, hair damp from the cold, familiar in a way that tightens your chest before you can stop it.

You blink. Once. Twice.

“You’re kidding,” you say.

“Hi,” he replies.

“No. Why are you here?”

“Winter break.”

You stare at him. “That’s not an answer.”

You step back anyway, and he walks in like muscle memory, like he hasn’t spent months only existing through phone calls. The door shuts behind him, the sound heavier than it should be.

“I talked to you two days ago,” you say. “You were in Germany.”

“I know.”

“And now you’re here. In London.”

“Yes.”

You fold your arms. “Did you lose a bet?”

He smiles faintly. “Missed your hospitality.”

You scoff. “Your five-star model girlfriend finally get tired of you?”

Something shifts in his face.

“She’s not my girlfriend anymore.”

The joke dies instantly.

“…What?”

“I broke up with her yesterday.”

You stare at him, waiting for the punchline. It doesn’t come.

“You don’t just say that,” you mutter. “You don’t break up with someone and then show up at my door.”

“I know,” he says. “But it wasn’t nothing.”

You turn toward the kitchen, needing space, needing movement. Your hands busy themselves with the kettle.

“So what is this?” you ask. “A rebound flight?”

“No.”

“Guilt?”

“No.”

You glance back at him. “Then explain it to me.”

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he says. “Every time she joked, every time she tried to understand my world, it just reminded me that you already did.”

“That’s not fair,” you say immediately.

“I know. That’s why I ended it.”

You swallow. “You chose distance. You chose to leave Germany without me.”

“I chose football,” he replies. “And I thought I could survive the rest.”

You let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “And?”

“Terribly.”

Silence settles.

“I joke about her because it’s easier than admitting I miss you,” you admit softly.

“I know,” he says. “You’ve never been good at lying to me.”

The kettle clicks off.

You pour the water, hands steadier now, and pass him a mug. Your fingers brush. Brief. Loud.

“You look awful,” you say.

“Thanks.”

“I mean it,” you add. “Like you haven’t slept.”

“I haven’t,” he admits. “Not properly.”

You lean against the counter, studying him. “You can’t just walk back into my life.”

“I’m not asking to,” he says. “I just didn’t want to keep hiding behind calls anymore.”

“You always hated phone calls ending,” you murmur.

“Because I always had more to say.”

Outside, snow falls thick and slow, London muted under winter.

“You’re still an idiot,” you say.

He smiles softly. “Yeah.”

Winter break finally did what nothing else could.