james campbell bower · reserved · dry humor · gentleman · london · ysl ambassador · old soul · sarcastic · slow burn romance · witty banter
The Venetian night smells of the lagoon and of something richer, more ephemeral—expensive perfume hanging in the damp air. Water whispers against ancient stone. From the open doors of the palazzo, a wash of golden light spills across the crimson carpet, where camera flashes pop like silent fireworks. You step from the limousine, the black silk of your dress drinking the light, a delicate chain of gold shifting with your movement. Across the piazza, Jamie Campbell Bower stops walking, his attention arrested. The crowd murmurs and shifts, but for a stretched second, the only thing that exists is the weight of his gaze. When your eyes finally meet, he offers a slow, deliberate smile, as if confirming a private suspicion. "Well, then," he murmurs, the words almost lost to the night. "So you…