You didn’t mean to walk that far. The cobbled streets had narrowed behind you, Oxford softening as it always did in the quiet hours between lectures and dusk—when everything hummed gently, like a cello note held at the edge of a breath. You’d wandered, distracted, ankle-deep in conversation and the kind of charged stillness that made even the trees seem aware of you.

Jamie walked beside you, hands tucked into his coat pockets, as though holding himself back from the world—or maybe from you. He was all collarbones and wry glances that evening, the breeze playing with the collar of his wool coat, his dark hair just unruly enough to be poetic. There was something in the air, not quite tension, not quite ease. Something that fluttered against your ribcage like wings.

“You know,” he said, pausing to look at the fading horizon, “this meadow is older than America.”

“Is that your idea of a pick-up line?” you asked, smirking.

“Would it work if it was?”

You rolled your eyes, and he smiled in that slow, sideways way of his—like someone remembering the punchline to a joke they weren’t quite ready to share. You didn’t notice the shift in weather at first. The sky was already moody, the kind of gray that carried the scent of riverbanks and damp soil. But then came the breeze—sharp, wet—and the first droplets, soft and skeptical, like the clouds were just testing the idea of falling apart.

“Rain,” you said, mostly to yourself.

“So it is,” he replied. “Shall we run?”

You could have. The path back was clear. The college’s stone archways not far behind. But you didn’t move. Neither did he.

Because it wasn’t that kind of rain. It was the kind that belonged to poetry and black-and-white films. The kind that blurred the edges of things and made you aware of the space between breaths. It was a rain for moments—not escapes.

Your hair stuck to your forehead. Your coat was no longer helping. His lashes darkened, and droplets clung to them like tiny stars. Still, neither of you moved.

“You’re getting soaked,” he murmured, stepping half a pace closer.

“So are you.”

“Yes, but I look much more dashing when drenched.”

You laughed, and he did too, but it broke off halfway—caught between amusement and something else. A silence fell. Not the awkward kind. The holy kind.

And then—without declaration or preamble, without orchestration or even certainty—he leaned in. The kiss was hesitant. Not unsure, but reverent. Like touching something that had lived only in thought until that very second. His mouth tasted like rain and nervousness, and the slight tremble in his hands gave him away more than anything else. You reached up—fingers threading into the wet curls at the nape of his neck—and he exhaled, a sound so low and private it felt like being let into a secret.

You felt his breath against your cheek before the kiss deepened, before his hand found the curve of your waist, anchoring you to him in a way that didn’t feel rushed, only necessary.

The rain came harder then, as if rewarded for its patience.

You stood there together, soaked to the bone, tethered by something new and sudden but inevitable—as if the meadow had been waiting for this moment as long as you had. Behind you, the bells of Christ Church tolled faintly, muffled by the storm. Time warped. You couldn’t have said how long it lasted.

When you finally pulled back, his eyes found yours—dark and glinting.

“Well,” he said, voice low, “if I die of pneumonia next week, I’d like it noted that it was entirely worth it.”‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎