â§âËâ leap to you àŒâ§âË. - a Jude Bellingham x Original Character series
The afternoon light had that washed out, pre-evening quality that always meant match day.
Jude sat on the edge of the bench in the locker room, elbows braced on his knees, boots unlaced, phone resting face-down beside him.Â
The room hummed with low conversation and the soft percussion of studs against tile. Someone laughed down the row. Someone else was already half in their kit, focused and closed-off.
He rolled his shoulders once, feeling the familiar tightness settle into something workable.
Routine helped. Match days were predictable in a way little else was - warm-up, briefing, tape, stretch. A sequence of motions his body knew how to follow even when his mind wandered.
His phone vibrated against the bench.
He glanced down without much thought - then paused.
For a split second, his chest tightened. Just enough to remind him that the quiet between them the last couple of days hadn't gone unnoticed.
Giselle:Â Hey. I've got the afternoon off if you're around later.
There was no apology in it. No explanation. Just an opening - simple, careful, honest in the way she'd been learning how to be.
The tension he hadn't realized he was carrying eased, just a fraction.
Jude typed back without overthinking it.
Jude: I'd love to but I've got a game in a bit.
A beat. Then, because it felt like him - because he didn't want the weight to creep back in - he added:
Jude: You could come sit in the stands and pretend you know football đ
He hesitated, thumb hovering, then hit send.
The locker room door swung open as the physio came through, clipboard tucked under her arm. Jude set his phone down again, leaning back slightly as the conversation around him shifted, but his attention lingered - not anxious, just open.
A moment later, the phone buzzed again.
Giselle:Â Tempting, but I think I'll take a rain check. Big crowds aren't really my thing today.
Jude smiled - small, instinctive.
Jude:Â I can come by later?
This time, he didn't add a joke. He didn't soften it or dress it up.
It wasn't a question that needed cushioning.
Giselle:Â Yeah. I'd like that.
Something steady settled in his chest.
He locked his phone and stood, pulling his hoodie off as he joined the rest of the team. The noise of the room rose around him - studs clacking, tape tearing, voices sharpening into focus.
As he laced his boots, he felt anchored in a way he hadn't earlier. Not distracted. Not pulled away from the match.
There was a game to play.
And afterward, somewhere quieter, someone he wanted to see - not because she owed him anything or because he needed reassurance.
Just because they were still choosing each other.
The final whistle came in a blur of noise and floodlights.
Jude barely registered the score as the stadium erupted around him. Teammates clapped shoulders, shouted over each other, already replaying moments from the match like it was muscle memory. He moved through it easily, nodding, smiling where it was expected, letting the adrenaline burn itself down into something steadier.
By the time he reached the tunnel, the roar of the crowd had softened into a distant, echoing thunder.
âGood shift,â someone said, clapping him across the back as they peeled off toward the changing room.
âYeah,â Jude replied automatically.
Inside, the air was thick with heat and noise - boots hitting tile, tape being ripped loose, music starting somewhere at the far end of the room. He sat on the bench, tugging his shirt over his head, sweat cooling quickly against his skin.
His phone sat where heâd left it in his bag. He didnât reach for it right away.
He knew she wasnât the kind of person who filled a silence with updates. If sheâd changed her mind, she would say so. If she hadnât, sheâd be exactly where she said sheâd be - and somehow that steadiness felt more reassuring than constant messages ever could.
He showered quickly, letting the hot water pound against the back of his neck, rinsing off the last of the match. By the time he stepped out, the room had shifted into post-game looseness - laughter louder now, someone arguing about dinner plans, the physio rolling her eyes at a half-serious complaint about a sore ankle.
Jude dressed without rushing, pulling on a hoodie and dark joggers, towel rubbing absently through his damp curls.
âYou coming out with us?â one of the lads asked, already halfway into a jacket.
âNot tonight,â Jude said, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
There were a few exaggerated groans, someone accusing him of being boring, but it was all familiar, easy.
âNext time,â he added, and meant it.
Across the city, Giselle's apartment smelled faintly of vanilla and lavender from the candle she'd lit near the window. Outside, evening had settled properly now, the sky darkening into that deep blue that blurred the edges of buildings across the street.
Giselle checked the time, then forced herself to stop checking it.
She moved into the kitchen instead, rinsing two mugs sheâd already washed earlier, the repetitive motion grounding. The kettle filled, clicked on. Water, tea, something simple. Predictable.
Her reflection caught faintly in the darkened window above the sink â hair loose, face bare, an old soft jumper hanging off one shoulder slightly where the fabric had stretched over time. Not the carefully assembled version of herself she used to offer the world.
Bella shifted, hopping down from the couch and padding toward the hallway as if sensing movement long before it happened. Giselle watched her for a second, then huffed a quiet laugh.
A car door slammed faintly somewhere outside. Footsteps echoed in the hallway beyond her apartment, muffled by the buildingâs thin carpeting. Bellaâs ears pricked, tail giving a slow, hopeful thump against the floor.
Giselleâs pulse jumped.
Itâs just Jude, she reminded herself.
The thought landed softer than it would have weeks ago. Still heavy. Still meaningful. But no longer overwhelming.
Bella trotted toward the front door, sitting expectantly.
He knocked once, then again.
Giselle paused mid-step in the kitchen, the match still burning between her fingers. She'd lit a couple of candles out of habit, the small flames steady on the coffee table. Bella waited, one eye cracked open in vague interest.
"I'm coming," Giselle called, already moving.
She blew the match out, waved the smoke away, and crossed the apartment barefoot. When she opened the door, Jude was there with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, hair still damp from the shower, cheeks faintly pink from the cold.
"Hey." She smiled before she could stop herself.
He didn't step in. Didn't glance past her shoulder like he was taking stock of the space. He just looked at her, then tilted his head slightly.
"Put your shoes on," he said.
The words were easy. Decided. Like he'd already pictured it and was just inviting her to catch up.
Giselle laughed under her breath. "I thought you were coming in."
"I am," he said. "Briefly. To wait while you get ready."
Jude's eyes dropped pointedly to her bare feet, then flicked back up. "Shoes," he repeated, smiling now.
She hesitated - not the sharp, panicked kind. Just the small pause of someone recalibrating. Then she stepped back and waved him in.
"Five minutes," she said.
"Take ten," he replied, shrugging out of his jacket and hanging it over the back of the chair like he'd done before.
Giselle padded toward the bedroom, heart oddly light. She pulled on her boots, fingers working the zip with practiced ease. A coat followed - the warm one, not the careful one. She caught her reflection in the mirror as she zipped it up, hair still loose, face bare and familiar.
Good enough, she thought. More than.
On her way back, she paused by the coffee table. The candles were still burning, soft and steady. She stood there for a second, then leaned forward and blew them out one by one. Smoke curled up, faint and sweet.
"I'll be back," she murmured, more to the room than anyone else.
Bella flicked an ear, unimpressed.
Jude was waiting by the door when she returned, already pulling his jacket back on.
"Okay," he said, opening it for her. "Come on."
She stepped out into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind her, and felt something shift - not dramatic.
Just the simple decision to go.
They took the stairs instead of the lift, their footsteps echoing softly in the narrow stairwell. Giselle kept one hand light on the rail, the other tucked into her coat pocket. Jude walked just half a step behind her, not crowding, not distant - matching her pace without comment.
Outside, the air was cool and damp, the kind that sat on your skin without quite chilling it. Early evening had settled in, the sky a muted slate, streetlights already flickering on along the block.
"So," Giselle said as they reached the pavement, the word slipping out more easily than she expected. "Where are we going?"
Jude glanced down at her, eyes bright. "You'll see."
"It's an answer adjacent to an answer."
She snorted, shaking her head as they started walking. "You're impossible."
"Yet you're following me."
They fell into step, the city moving around them - people passing with headphones in, couples arguing quietly, a delivery bike rattling past. Jude pointed things out as they went, small, unimportant observations. A dog straining at its lead. A bakery still open, warm light spilling onto the street. Giselle found herself responding without thinking, the conversation loosening into something unforced.
By the time they reached the edge of the park, her shoulders had dropped. She hadn't noticed when.
The iron gates stood open, the paths inside dimly lit and slick from an earlier rain. Leaves clung to the ground in dark patches, the smell of wet earth sharp and clean.
"Here," Jude said, gesturing her in.
They followed one of the winding paths, gravel crunching softly beneath their feet. The city noise faded the deeper they went, replaced by distant voices and the low rustle of trees shifting in the breeze.
Giselle exhaled, slow and full. "I forgot how quiet it gets in here."
Jude smiled. "That's the point."
They walked side by side, close enough that their coats brushed now and then. Each time it happened, Giselle noticed - and each time, she didn't pull away.
She talked about rehearsal, about a new piece they were learning, about how her calves still ached in a way that felt almost comforting. Jude listened, asking questions, the kind that showed he was actually picturing it.
He told her about the match - not the tactics or the score, just the moments that stuck. A pass that almost worked. A joke in the locker room. The way the crowd sounded when the lights came on.
They avoided the obvious thing between them, both of them aware of it, both letting it stay untouched for now. And somehow, that made the space feel lighter, not heavier.
The path curved, familiar in a way Giselle felt before she consciously recognised it.Â
Jude followed her gaze. The bench sat exactly where it always had, tucked beneath the broad branches of a plane tree, paint chilled at the edges. Someone had scratched initials into the backrest at some point, half-faded now.
They crossed the grass together, shoes dampening at the edges, and sat.Â
Jude stretched his legs out in front of him, resting his hands loosely on his thighs. They sat like that for a while, talking about nothing that mattered and everything that did in small ways. A ballerina who kept missing her cue. And a footballer who refused to retire a pair of boots held together mostly by superstition.Â
At some point, Jude leaned back, bracing his hands on the bench behind him. "You know," he said casually, "I don't mind when you go quiet."
She glanced at him. "No?"
"No," he shrugged. "It doesn't feel like you're leaving. Just... thinking somewhere else for a bit."
That landed gently. She let it.
"Most of my life is... loud."
"Crowds. Changing rooms. People shouting my name like they know me. Teammates, media, expectations." He gave a small, wry huff. "There's always noise. Even when it's quiet, it's loud."
"So when you go quiet," he continued, voice even, "it doesn't scare me. It doesn't feel like absence. It feels like a room I can breathe in."
Something in her chest loosened.
"I don't need you to fill the space," he said. "I actually really like that you don't."
She let out a breath she hadn't realised she was holding. "I was worried it would bore you."
He laughed softly. "Gi, you're the part of my week where I actually feel like myself."
The air shifted, cooler, the light dimming further as clouds thickened overhead. A few large drops of rain hit the path, darkening the gravel.Â
Giselle looked up. "That didn't take long."
Jude followed her gaze, then grinned. "Madrid timing."
The rain picked up, light but insistent, threading through the leaves above them. Jude stood first, offering a hand. "We should head back."
She took his hand - then didn't let go right away.
"Can we wait?" she asked.
"Just a minute." She hesitated, then added, softer, "I don't want to go back yet."
He glanced at the sky, rain already speckling his jacket, then back at her.
Giselle smiled, small and genuine. "No kidding."
Something in his expression shifted - not concern. Just acceptance. The kind that seemed to come easier to him around her.Â
"Alright," he said easily, sitting back down. "We'll get soaked."
They stayed. Let the rain come.
At first it was just a fine mist, barely enough to justify staying put. The kind that gathered on eyelashes and softened the air without truly wetting anything.
Then it thickened. Drops darkened the pavement, tapping against the bench in uneven rhythms. The city around them thinned out quickly - umbrellas blooming, footsteps quickening, voices retreating toward cafés and doorways glowing warm against the grey.
Jude watched her out of the corner of his eye, a faint smile pulling at his mouth like heâd caught her doing something quietly brave.
"Well," Jude said after a moment, watching the sky like it had personally betrayed him. "This feels like a poor strategic choice."
She shrugged, one shoulder lifting. "You agreed."
"I didn't say I was happy about it."
She glanced sideways at him. "You're smiling."
He looked down at himself, rain already soaking through his jacket, then back at her. "This is resignation."
She laughed softly, the sound swallowed slightly by the rain.
Another minute passed. Then another.
The rain stopped being polite.
Water ran down her collar, slid into places it had no business being. Her shoes made a faint, pathetic sound when she shifted her feet.
Jude sucked in a breath, glancing down at his sleeves, then at the steadily pooling water at their feet. He stood abruptly.
She pressed her lips together, trying - and failing - not to laugh at the ridiculousness of it.
He stood abruptly. "Okay, we've officially crossed into stupid."
Giselle laughed - a quiet, genuine sound that surprised even her. "Too late."
They didn't run at first. Just walked faster, shoulders hunching instinctively, dodging puddles that immediately undid the effort. Rain streaked down her lashes, blurring the edges of the world.Â
By the time Jude grabbed her wrist to pull her across the path, both of them were already soaked.
"This is on you," he said, breathless now, rain slicking his curls against his forehead.
She glanced at their joined hands, then up at him. "You could've said no."
He snorted, shaking his head. "That was never going to happen."
They did start running then, with no coordination or grace. Giselle's laugh escaped again as her foot skidded slightly, Jude steadying her without thinking. Water splashed up her calves, cold and shocking.
âCareful,â he called, laughing too now. âI donât fancy explaining this to your neighbours.â
They passed strangers who stared, unimpressed. Passed couples huddled under umbrellas, dry and sensible and faintly judgemental. For a moment it felt like the city had narrowed just to them - the wet pavement, the breath in her lungs, Jude's voice cutting through the rain.
"Left," he called, tugging her toward the crossing.
"That's not my building," she said, half laughing.
"I know, I'm avoiding that puddle!"
âOkay - that one was my fault.â
âYour navigation skills are terrible,â she managed, pushing wet hair out of her eyes.
âYouâre welcome for the adventure.â
When they finally slowed near her building, both of them drenched and ridiculous, Jude bent slightly, hands braced on his knees.
"I want it noted," he said between breaths, "that I am a professional athlete and this is my second lot of cardio for the day."
Giselle pushed wet hair off her face, still smiling and catching her breath. "You're welcome."
He looked up at her then - hair plastered to her neck, coat dark and heavy, cheeks flushed - and grinned.
Neither of them said it out loud.
By the time they reached the apartment, both of them were soaked through.
Rain had plastered Giselle's hair to the back of her neck, darkened the shoulders of her coat, crept into her shoes. Jude looked no better - hoodie clinging, curls damp and flattened, water dripped from the hem of his sleeves onto the floor as soon as the door shut behind him.
Giselle laughed under her breath as she kicked her shoes off, the sound softer now, worn down into something fond and tired.
She grabbed a towel from the hook by the door and tossed it towards him. "Here. Before you drip everywhere."
Jude caught it, grinning as he scrubbed at his hair. "And whose fault is that? You dragged me through the rain."
"I did no such thing," she said, peeling off her coat and hanging it carefully despite the water still streaming from it. "You followed willingly."
He huffed a laugh but didn't argue.
"Bathroom's free if you want to change," she added, already turning toward the bedroom.Â
She didn't wait for an answer.
In the bedroom, she moved automatically - towel, drawer, shirt. The mirror caught her briefly as she pulled her wet sweater over her head, curls sticking to her cheeks, skin flushed from the cold and the walk and the laughter she hadn't realised she'd missed.
There was a quiet care in the way she dried her hair, pressing the towel gently rather than rubbing, gathering the damp curls into the fabric as if they might bruise under rougher hands. A few loose strands escaped anyway, falling soft against her jaw, against the slope of her neck still warm from the apartment air.
A soft bra. An old pyjama shirt she hadn't bother to button up yet, fabric loose, forgiving. The cotton skimmed over her skin as she tugged it on quickly, not hiding so much as not presenting either.
When she stepped back into the living room, Jude was standing near the window, rainwater still darkening the fabric of his hoodie. He'd pushed the sleeves up, curls damps and unruly, one hand absently wiping condensation from the glass as if he could clear the weather by will alone.Â
He shrugged out of his hoodie and hung it over the chair, careful. As he turned, his gaze flicked briefly, intentionally, toward her side where the hem of the pyjama shirt lifted when she reached for mugs. The white scar across her ribs, similar to the one on her temple.
He didn't stare. Didn't react at all, really. Just noticed, the way you notice something that matters without knowing what to do with it.
She set the mugs down a little too precisely.
"That one's not from ballet either," she said lightly, almost offhand, as it commenting on the weather. "Before you ask."
Jude's head tilted a fraction. He hadn't been about to ask.
She glanced at his then - checking maybe, for curiosity or pity or the reflective 'tell me'. She found none of it.
A breath she hadn't realised she was holding slipped out of her.
"I used to say this one was from a lift gone wrong," she added, quieter now, pouring hot water into the cups. "Same as the one on my temple." A faint, wry curve of her mouth. "Turns out I got very good at making things sound smaller."
Jude leaned back against the counter, arms loose at his sides. "You don't have to explain anything you don't want to."
"I know." She handed him a mug. "I just... didn't want to keep lying about it either."
He nodded once, accepting that as exactly enough.
They stood there for a second longer, the kettle clicking softly as it cooled, rain ticking against the glass. The quiet didn't feel dangerous - but it felt full.
The calendar was pinned to the wall by the fridge, just to the side of Jude - towel draped loosely around his neck, hair still damp. He had seen it - his shoulder was just brushing the paper as he shifted his weight - but she had.Â
The date sat there in red ink, circled twice.
Jude noticed her pause. "You okay?"
She nodded automatically, then shook her head. "Yeah. I just-" She gestured toward the calendar. "I go back to the UK again soon."
"Court?" he asks, reading the words on the paper.
She nodded. "In two weeks." She shrugged, like the number was flexible, like it didn't already feel fixed in her chest.
"I'm guessing that's not just juror duty..."
A corner of her mouth lifted, brief and humourless. "No." She shifted her weight, one foot sliding back, heel catching on the tile. "It's... mine."
Jude was quiet for a moment. Not the distracted kind - the considering kind. Then he said, evenly, "Is this the thing you go quiet around?"
The question wasn't sharp. It wasn't loaded. It was observational, like he'd noticed a weather pattern and finally named it.
Giselle's fingers curled lightly at her side. "Yeah."
He nodded once. "Then I'm going to ask something, and you can tell me to stop at any point."
Her shoulders lifted slightly, then settled. "Stop."
"This isn't just paperwork," Jude said. "And it's not just inconvenient. Whatever it is, it still has its hands on you."
"It's about my ex," she said.
"I figured that part," he replied gently. "What I don't know is how bad it was."
The air shifted - not colder, just more honest.
Giselle leaned back against the counter, grounding herself. "Bad enough that I had to leave the country to feel like myself again."
Jude's jaw set, but his voice stayed calm. "Did he do the...?" he gestured, vague but careful, to the permanent marks on her skin. The evidence she never announced.
Giselle followed the motion without looking down. She already knew what he meant.
"Yes," she said. No pause this time. No softening. Just the truth, placed flat between them.
Jude's breath left him slowly through his nose. He didn't swear. Didn't move. For a second, something sharp flickered across his face - not anger exactly, but the raw instinct of it. The kind that wanted names. Locations. Consequences.
His hands stayed exactly where they were, fingers loose against the counter's edge, like he was anchoring himself to something solid so he wouldn't react in a way that made this about him.
The word wasn't small. It wasn't dismissive. It was the sound of him accepting the weight of it. Inside, his mind was louder.Â
She waited for something else - anger, questions, that sharp protective edge she'd learned to brace against. It didn't come.
"It wasn't always... physical," she added, after a moment. Her voice thinned, but didn't break. " Sometimes it was just... pressure. Watching. Making sure I knew what would happen if I didn't behave." A faint, bitter breath. "I got very good at behaving."
Jude nodded, slow. "Control," he said. It wasn't a guess. It was recognition.
"Mhm." She hesitated, then went on.Â
"I didn't report it straight away." Her tone shift - not colder, just flatter, like she was reciting something she'd learned by repetition. "I didn't think it would go anywhere. There was no... single moment."
Jude stayed quiet, letting her set the pace.
"So it's not just one charge," she continued. "It's a pattern." The words were precise, almost clinical. "They had to build it over time. Messages. Statements. Pictures. Medical records."
Each word landed like something catalogued and boxed, filed away in places it never should have needed to exist.
She shrugged lightly, a reflex more than a choice. "It's strange, seeing your life translated into evidence."
Jude's jaw tightened again.
"You shouldnât have had to become proof," he said quietly, the words leaving him before he could overthink them.
"I gave my statement months after I left," she said. "By then I was already away from him. Safer. Clearer." A pause stretched thin. "That's when it all caught up with me."
She took a breath, steadying. "The court date isn't about whether I'm okay now. It's about whether what happened counts." Her mouth curved faintly, without humour. "Legally."
Something in his chest pulled tight at that - the reduction of something so personal into verdicts and procedures and strangers deciding definitions.
Jude turned slightly toward her, careful not to crowd. "And you have to be there."
"Mhm." She nodded once. "To testify. And answer questions. And sit in a room with him and not react."
That was the first crack - not in her voice, but in the way her fingers curled against the counter, tension gathering like it had nowhere else to go.
Judeâs gaze dropped briefly to the floor, then back to her, like he was recalibrating something inside himself.
"Thatâs... an impossible thing to ask someone to do," he said quietly. Not dramatic. Not exaggerated. Just honest.
Her mouth twitched faintly, the closest she came to agreement.
The idea of her sitting across from someone who had hurt her - being asked to hold herself together while strangers dissected it - landed somewhere sharp in his chest. Not anger. Something heavier. Helpless, maybe. The kind he wasnât used to feeling.
"You shouldn't have to go through that," he said quietly.
Giselleâs shoulders shifted, barely, like the words found a place to rest even if they didnât change anything.
"I chose to report it," she said softly, reflexive.
"I know," Jude replied immediately. There wasnât a hint of contradiction in his voice. "That doesnât mean itâs fair."
Outside, the rain tapped against the glass, beginning to lose its urgency. The streetlights reflected off the wet pavement, turning everything gold-edged and unreal.
Giselle shifted her weight, suddenly aware of the quiet, of how much she'd said. "I might... shut down later," she warned softly. "Not because of you. Just because it gets to be too much."
"Then we'll sit quietly," Jude said, without hesitation. "Or I'll go home. Or we'll watch some terrible TV show and not talk about anything important."
She laughed at the simplicity - surprised by it, but grateful. The sound felt like proof.
"Thank you," she said. "For not trying to fix it."
He met her gaze, steady and unguarded. "Thank you for trusting me with it."
They stood there a moment longer, the night settling around them, neither of them rushing the next step. And for the first time in a while, Giselle noticed something unfamiliar and fragile taking shape beneath the fear.
Giselle exhaled slowly, her spine easing against the counter as the adrenaline of speaking began to ebb, leaving behind that familiar, fragile tiredness.Â
They moved to the couch without ceremony. Jude settled at one end of the couch, stretching his legs out in front of him with the easy familiarity he always carried into her space. He left room beside him without making it obvious - space that was simply there if she wanted it.
Giselle curled into the opposite corner as she pulled the blanket from the armrest over her lap. Right on cue, Bella reappeared, hopping up beside her with the unquestioned confidence of someone reclaiming their assigned seat. Giselle absently stroked behind her ears, earning an immediate, thunderous purr.
Jude picked up the remote, scrolling until something brightly lit and deeply inconsequential filled the screen. A laugh track kicked in, unearned and loud.
"Absolutely not," Giselle said immediately.
"Give it two minutes," he replied, already settling back.
She did. She narrowed her eyes at the screen like she was offended by its existence, but she didn't argue further.
Then, despite herself, a quiet huff of amusement slipped out when one of the characters delivered a line so badly timed it circled back into funny.
Jude glanced over, catching it instantly, and grinned. "See."
She rolled her eyes but didn't deny it.Â
They watched in companionable silence after that - not tense, not careful. Their shoulders didn't touch, but they weren't angled away either. At some point, Jude's knee brushed hers when he shifted, and neither of them moved to correct it.
The world outside the apartment stayed damp and reflective, the earlier rain leaving the streets shining under the lights. Inside, the room felt settled - not resolved, but held.
Halfway through the episode, Jude spoke again, eyes still on the screen, his voice low enough that it didn't disturb the calm that had settle over the room.
"For what it's worth," he said, casual but certain, "I'm not going anywhere in two weeks. Or after."
She didn't look at him. Didn't need to.
The word felt different this time. It wasn't as heavy.
Bella purred, loud and insistent, and Giselle let her head rest back against the cushion, the noise of the TV filling the space where her thoughts usually crowded in.
But they were here - damp shoes by the door, terrible television playing, the space between them easy again.
They were still choosing each other.
