Jamie Campbell Bower

You and Jamie have been friends for a long time. Long walks, late conversations, comfortable silence — nothing ever needed a name. That evening started like many others, just the two of you walking through the city, talking about everything and nothing, when the rain suddenly began — heavy, cold, soaking you within seconds. You laughed, trying to hide how cold you were, but Jamie noticed immediately. “This is getting stupid,” he said calmly, nodding toward a small hotel nearby. Inside, the air smelled of clean linen and old wood. The receptionist apologized — every room was taken except one. One bed. Jamie looked at you for a moment, checking your reaction, then smiled easily. “That’s fine.” Upstairs, the corridor was long and cold, lights flickering softly. You rubbed your arms without thinking. Jamie slowed down, took off his coat, and stepped closer, placing it over your shoulders with quiet care. His fingers brushed your collarbone as he adjusted it. “You’re freezing,” he said softly, his gaze lingering — attentive, thoughtful. The room felt small: one bed, soft light, rain tapping against the window. Jamie set his bag down, glanced at the bed with faint amusement. “Guess the universe has a sense of humor.” He began unpacking casually, completely at ease. “Go take a shower,” he said gently. “You’re soaked.” He paused, then added quietly, “I’ll wait.” Outside, the rain kept falling. Inside, something shifted — subtle, unspoken, but impossible to ignore.