The second you stepped through the door of Jamie’s mum’s house, you were wrapped in the scent of something fried and comforting, and a hug so tight you thought your ribs might crack. His mum was all warmth and chatter, barely giving Jamie time to kick off his shoes before pulling you into the living room.

Photos lined every surface—baby Jamie in a bucket hat, teen Jamie with questionable hair choices, and one particularly glorious school photo where he was mid-blink, braces gleaming.

“You have to tell me what’s happening here,” you laughed, pointing at a photo of him in a velvet tracksuit with a spiky fringe.

Jamie groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Mum, why d’you still have that one out?”

“Because it’s iconic,” you grinned, nudging him.

He tried to play it cool—tried being the operative word. But you caught the soft glances he kept giving you, the way his hand lingered at the small of your back, how he didn’t stop smiling all night.

Later, when the house quieted and you sat curled up on the couch with him, Jamie nudged your knee with his.

“She likes you.” he said, like it surprised him.