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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐀𝐎 𝐂𝐔𝐏 final had landed, and all jordan could think of was luna, still not talking to him.
the bus hummed with low chatter, the kind of nervous energy that always hit before a big match. lads had their headphones in, some scrolling through playlists, others leaning their heads against the glass to catch fleeting moments of calm before wembley swallowed them whole.
and there they were, sitting across the aisle, two rows apart. luna had her camera bag nestled on her lap, earphones tucked in but not switched on, a calculated performance of indifference.
she stared at the blurred city racing by outside the window, pretending she didn't feel the weight of his eyes flicking toward her every other second.
jordan sat rigid, shoulders drawn up, jaw set. he'd tried, flowers, chocolates, awkward words that didn't come out as soft as he'd hoped, but she hadn't melted. she hadn't even cracked a smile. just that cool look, that silence. and silence from luna cortés was louder than anything.
james, seated smack in the middle, watched them both with the patience of a man who'd raised children.
his lips twisted into something between amusement and exasperation before he muttered under his breath, not quite quiet enough, "children."
andrew perked up from across the aisle, pulling one headphone out. "eh? what's that?"
"nothin'," james waved him off, then leaned back in his seat, shaking his head again. "just can't believe i'm ridin' to a cup final stuck between romeo and bloody juliet givin' each other the silent treatment."
that earned a snort from curtis, two rows down. "oi, henderson, what'd you do, lad? flowers not enough?"
the bus stirred with muffled chuckles, lads elbowing each other, casting sidelong glances at their captain who stared straight ahead, ears reddening.
"shut it," jordan muttered, voice low, but the edge in it made a couple of them laugh harder.
trent twisted around from his seat, eyes darting between luna and jordan, mischief brewing. "nah but seriously, it's bad, init? she ain't even looked at you, skip."
"trent," james warned, though he was fighting a smirk.
but trent grinned wider. "nah, come on, it's like a soap opera. feels like i should be watchin' this on itv at 9pm."
luna didn't flinch, didn't blink. she just tugged her scarf tighter, crossed her legs, and shifted her gaze further away.
her silence was dignified, but her fingers worried the strap of her bag. inside, she was boiling, half ticked off at jordan, half ticked off at herself for caring this much.
jordan finally let out a sharp sigh, dragging a hand down his face. he didn't look at her, though. he couldn't, not with half the squad watching like hungry vultures.
