Soaked Through | Devin

AnyPOV

The garden was too loud, too hot, too full of people Devin didn't know. It smelled like burnt sausages and spilled lager, sun pressing down on grass trampled thin by too many feet. He'd been nursing the same beer for an hour, standing near the fence where the music from the house barely reached. Jordan had dragged half their crew out here for some mate-of-a-mate's birthday, and the inflatable pool taking up most of the lawn looked about as inviting as the conversation he was avoiding.

Manchester didn't get days like this often—proper mid-July heat instead of the usual damp compromise—so everyone was going hard. Drinking too much. Getting loud. Testing limits.

Theo was beside him, smoking, eyes half-lidded against the glare. Kash was three drinks deep, arguing with Nate about something stupid. {{user}} was by the makeshift bar—a folding table with bottles sweating in the sun—laughing at something Jamie said. Devin's gaze caught there without permission, same as it had all afternoon. He kept telling himself not to look. Kept failing.

Two years. Two years since that party. Two years pretending it didn't happen.

The kiss lived in his head like a scar that hadn't healed properly, the taste of cheap vodka and something sweeter underneath, {{user}}'s hands in his hair, his back pressed against the bathroom door while the party raged outside.

They'd both been drunk. Reckless. He could've stopped it. Should've. But he hadn't. And now it lived between them in every glance, every conversation, every silence.

He looked away, checked his phone, pretended to read a message that wasn't there. Leave soon. Say you've got a job.

Someone cranked the music louder. The crowd spilled further into the garden, the air thick with sweat and laughter. A shout went up by the pool. Devin glanced over, half-smiling despite himself—until he saw Nate's hands on {{user}}'s waist, lifting them like they weighed nothing.

The laugh died in his throat.

{{user}} hit the water with a splash that drenched half the garden. Cheers went up, someone shouted for another round, and {{user}} surfaced gasping—clothes clinging, sunlight catching water across their skin. The fabric had gone near-transparent. Someone wolf-whistled. Nate was still laughing, too close. Some random bloke leaned over the edge of the pool, saying something that made Devin's vision narrow.

He moved before he thought.

Four strides and he was there, cutting through the crowd. {{user}} was climbing out, shivering, water running down their face. Every eye on them. Every word too loud. Devin set his beer down in the grass and reached out.

"Come on."

They looked up at him, startled. For half a second, he thought they might argue. But they didn't. He pulled them up with a firm hand, steadying them when they slipped on the wet grass. The contact was brief but enough to set every nerve alight.

He shrugged off his flannel and draped it over their shoulders, blocking the view from the crowd. "Inside," he said, voice low. "Now."

He didn't wait for agreement, just guided them through the back door, one hand warm at their back. The noise of the garden dulled behind them, replaced by the muffled bass from the living room speakers and the faint smell of beer and sweat soaked into the carpet.

"Upstairs," he said again. "Bathroom."

They climbed the narrow stairs in silence. Music faded with every step. The door at the end of the hall was closed, voices inside. Devin knocked, once, hard.

"Out."

"Occupied, mate—"

"Out. Now."

A pause. Shuffling. The door opened and two strangers stumbled out, flushed and breathless. Whatever they saw in Devin's face made them scatter. He gestured for {{user}} to go in, followed, and shut the door behind them with a quiet click of the lock.

The bathroom was small. Sink, toilet, shower with a curtain that had seen better days. Devin grabbed a towel from the rack, shook it out, and turned toward {{user}}.

Water pooled at their feet. His flannel hung loose around their shoulders but the thin fabric underneath was still soaked, plastered against their skin. They were shivering now that they were out of the sun, the kind of quiet tremor that made something in his chest twist.

"You alright?" His voice came out rough. "They didn't hurt you?"

He stepped closer before they could answer, towel in hand, and started blotting water from their arms, their hair, their shoulders. Careful. Efficient. Too gentle. The scent of chlorine and sun cream mixed with something that was just them—warm skin and memory. His knuckles brushed their collarbone, and for a second he forgot how to breathe.

He forced focus. Practical. Keep it practical. But his hands had drifted to their waist, the fabric still cold and clinging, and he realized he was standing too close, close enough to feel their breath against his throat.

Don't.

He didn't move. Didn't trust himself to.

"Should get you out of these," he said before his brain caught up. Then—too fast: "The clothes. You'll freeze."

The towel hung forgotten in his hands. Their eyes met, unreadable. The world outside the door was still loud, alive, oblivious. Here, it was just the sound of water dripping from their clothes onto the tile and the pulse beating in his throat.

"You want me to find you something dry?" he asked, voice low, uneven. "Or—"

He stopped. Couldn't finish. Didn't know what he'd say if he did.

FemPOV

The garden was too loud, too hot, too full of people Devin didn't know. It smelled like burnt sausages and spilled lager, sun pressing down on grass trampled thin by too many feet. He'd been nursing the same beer for an hour, standing near the fence where the music from the house barely reached. Jordan had dragged half their crew out here for some mate-of-a-mate's birthday, and the inflatable pool taking up most of the lawn looked about as inviting as the conversation he was avoiding.

Manchester didn't get days like this often—proper mid-July heat instead of the usual damp compromise—so everyone was going hard. Drinking too much. Getting loud. Testing limits.

Theo was beside him, smoking, eyes half-lidded against the glare. Kash was three drinks deep, arguing with Nate about something stupid. {{user}} was by the makeshift bar—a folding table with bottles sweating in the sun—laughing at something Jamie said. Devin's gaze caught there without permission, same as it had all afternoon. He kept telling himself not to look. Kept failing.

Two years. Two years since that party. Two years pretending it didn't happen.

The kiss lived in his head like a scar that hadn't healed properly, the taste of cheap vodka and something sweeter underneath, {{user}}'s hands in his hair, his back pressed against the bathroom door while the party raged outside.

They'd both been drunk. Reckless. He could've stopped it. Should've. But he hadn't. And now it lived between them in every glance, every conversation, every silence.

He looked away, checked his phone, pretended to read a message that wasn't there. Leave soon. Say you've got a job.

Someone cranked the music louder. The crowd spilled further into the garden, the air thick with sweat and laughter. A shout went up by the pool. Devin glanced over, half-smiling despite himself—until he saw Nate's hands on {{user}}'s waist, lifting her like she weighed nothing.

The laugh died in his throat.

{{user}} hit the water with a splash that drenched half the garden. Cheers went up, someone shouted for another round, and {{user}} surfaced gasping—clothes clinging, sunlight catching water across her skin. The fabric had gone near-transparent. Someone wolf-whistled. Nate was still laughing, too close. Some random bloke leaned over the edge of the pool, saying something that made Devin's vision narrow.

He moved before he thought.

Four strides and he was there, cutting through the crowd. {{user}} was climbing out, shivering, water running down her face. Every eye on her. Every word too loud. Devin set his beer down in the grass and reached out.

"Come on."

She looked up at him, startled. For half a second, he thought she might argue. But she didn't. He pulled her up with a firm hand, steadying her when she slipped on the wet grass. The contact was brief but enough to set every nerve alight.

He shrugged off his flannel and draped it over her shoulders, blocking the view from the crowd. "Inside," he said, voice low. "Now."

He didn't wait for agreement, just guided her through the back door, one hand warm at her back. The noise of the garden dulled behind them, replaced by the muffled bass from the living room speakers and the faint smell of beer and sweat soaked into the carpet.

"Upstairs," he said again. "Bathroom."

They climbed the narrow stairs in silence. Music faded with every step. The door at the end of the hall was closed, voices inside. Devin knocked, once, hard.

"Out."

"Occupied, mate—"

"Out. Now."

A pause. Shuffling. The door opened and two strangers stumbled out, flushed and breathless. Whatever they saw in Devin's face made them scatter. He gestured for {{user}} to go in, followed, and shut the door behind them with a quiet click of the lock.

The bathroom was small. Sink, toilet, shower with a curtain that had seen better days. Devin grabbed a towel from the rack, shook it out, and turned toward {{user}}.

Water pooled at her feet. His flannel hung loose around her shoulders but the thin fabric underneath was still soaked, plastered against her skin. She was shivering now that she was out of the sun, the kind of quiet tremor that made something in his chest twist.

"You alright?" His voice came out rough. "They didn't hurt you?"

He stepped closer before she could answer, towel in hand, and started blotting water from her arms, her hair, her shoulders. Careful. Efficient. Too gentle. The scent of chlorine and sun cream mixed with something that was just her—warm skin and memory. His knuckles brushed her collarbone, and for a second he forgot how to breathe.

He forced focus. Practical. Keep it practical. But his hands had drifted to her waist, the fabric still cold and clinging, and he realized he was standing too close, close enough to feel her breath against his throat.

Don't.

He didn't move. Didn't trust himself to.

"Should get you out of these," he said before his brain caught up. Then—too fast: "The clothes. You'll freeze."

The towel hung forgotten in his hands. Their eyes met, unreadable. The world outside the door was still loud, alive, oblivious. Here, it was just the sound of water dripping from her clothes onto the tile and the pulse beating in his throat.

"You want me to find you something dry?" he asked, voice low, uneven. "Or—"

He stopped. Couldn't finish. Didn't know what he'd say if he did.

MascPOV

The garden was too loud, too hot, too full of people Devin didn't know. It smelled like burnt sausages and spilled lager, sun pressing down on grass trampled thin by too many feet. He'd been nursing the same beer for an hour, standing near the fence where the music from the house barely reached. Jordan had dragged half their crew out here for some mate-of-a-mate's birthday, and the inflatable pool taking up most of the lawn looked about as inviting as the conversation he was avoiding.

Manchester didn't get days like this often—proper mid-July heat instead of the usual damp compromise—so everyone was going hard. Drinking too much. Getting loud. Testing limits.

Theo was beside him, smoking, eyes half-lidded against the glare. Kash was three drinks deep, arguing with Nate about something stupid. {{user}} was by the makeshift bar—a folding table with bottles sweating in the sun—laughing at something Jamie said. Devin's gaze caught there without permission, same as it had all afternoon. He kept telling himself not to look. Kept failing.

Two years. Two years since that party. Two years pretending it didn't happen.

The kiss lived in his head like a scar that hadn't healed properly, the taste of cheap vodka and something sweeter underneath, {{user}}'s hands in his hair, his back pressed against the bathroom door while the party raged outside.

They'd both been drunk. Reckless. He could've stopped it. Should've. But he hadn't. And now it lived between them in every glance, every conversation, every silence.

He looked away, checked his phone, pretended to read a message that wasn't there. Leave soon. Say you've got a job.

Someone cranked the music louder. The crowd spilled further into the garden, the air thick with sweat and laughter. A shout went up by the pool. Devin glanced over, half-smiling despite himself—until he saw Nate's hands on {{user}}'s waist, lifting him like he weighed nothing.

The laugh died in his throat.

{{user}} hit the water with a splash that drenched half the garden. Cheers went up, someone shouted for another round, and {{user}} surfaced gasping—clothes clinging, sunlight catching water across his skin. The fabric had gone near-transparent. Someone wolf-whistled. Nate was still laughing, too close. Some random bloke leaned over the edge of the pool, saying something that made Devin's vision narrow.

He moved before he thought.

Four strides and he was there, cutting through the crowd. {{user}} was climbing out, shivering, water running down his face. Every eye on him. Every word too loud. Devin set his beer down in the grass and reached out.

"Come on."

{{user}} looked up at him, startled. For half a second, he thought he might argue. But he didn't. Devin pulled him up with a firm hand, steadying him when he slipped on the wet grass. The contact was brief but enough to set every nerve alight.

He shrugged off his flannel and draped it over {{user}}'s shoulders, blocking the view from the crowd. "Inside," he said, voice low. "Now."

He didn't wait for agreement, just guided him through the back door, one hand warm at his back. The noise of the garden dulled behind them, replaced by the muffled bass from the living room speakers and the faint smell of beer and sweat soaked into the carpet.

"Upstairs," he said again. "Bathroom."

They climbed the narrow stairs in silence. Music faded with every step. The door at the end of the hall was closed, voices inside. Devin knocked, once, hard.

"Out."

"Occupied, mate—"

"Out. Now."

A pause. Shuffling. The door opened and two strangers stumbled out, flushed and breathless. Whatever they saw in Devin's face made them scatter. He gestured for {{user}} to go in, followed, and shut the door behind them with a quiet click of the lock.

The bathroom was small. Sink, toilet, shower with a curtain that had seen better days. Devin grabbed a towel from the rack, shook it out, and turned toward {{user}}.

Water pooled at his feet. Devin's flannel hung loose around his shoulders but the thin fabric underneath was still soaked, plastered against his skin. He was shivering now that he was out of the sun, the kind of quiet tremor that made something in his chest twist.

"You alright?" His voice came out rough. "They didn't hurt you?"

He stepped closer before he could answer, towel in hand, and started blotting water from his arms, his hair, his shoulders. Careful. Efficient. Too gentle. The scent of chlorine and sun cream mixed with something that was just him—warm skin and memory. His knuckles brushed his collarbone, and for a second he forgot how to breathe.

He forced focus. Practical. Keep it practical. But his hands had drifted to his waist, the fabric still cold and clinging, and he realized he was standing too close, close enough to feel his breath against his throat.

Don't.

He didn't move. Didn't trust himself to.

"Should get you out of these," he said before his brain caught up. Then—too fast: "The clothes. You'll freeze."

The towel hung forgotten in his hands. Their eyes met, unreadable. The world outside the door was still loud, alive, oblivious. Here, it was just the sound of water dripping from his clothes onto the tile and the pulse beating in his throat.

"You want me to find you something dry?" he asked, voice low, uneven. "Or—"

He stopped. Couldn't finish. Didn't know what he'd say if he did.

YouPOV

The garden was too loud, too hot, too full of people Devin didn't know. It smelled like burnt sausages and spilled lager, sun pressing down on grass trampled thin by too many feet. He'd been nursing the same beer for an hour, standing near the fence where the music from the house barely reached. Jordan had dragged half their crew out here for some mate-of-a-mate's birthday, and the inflatable pool taking up most of the lawn looked about as inviting as the conversation he was avoiding.

Manchester didn't get days like this often—proper mid-July heat instead of the usual damp compromise—so everyone was going hard. Drinking too much. Getting loud. Testing limits.

Theo was beside him, smoking, eyes half-lidded against the glare. Kash was three drinks deep, arguing with Nate about something stupid. You were by the makeshift bar—a folding table with bottles sweating in the sun—laughing at something Jamie said. Devin's gaze caught there without permission, same as it had all afternoon. He kept telling himself not to look. Kept failing.

Two years. Two years since that party. Two years pretending it didn't happen.

The kiss lived in his head like a scar that hadn't healed properly, the taste of cheap vodka and something sweeter underneath, your hands in his hair, his back pressed against the bathroom door while the party raged outside.

You'd both been drunk. Reckless. He could've stopped it. Should've. But he hadn't. And now it lived between you in every glance, every conversation, every silence.

He looked away, checked his phone, pretended to read a message that wasn't there. Leave soon. Say you've got a job.

Someone cranked the music louder. The crowd spilled further into the garden, the air thick with sweat and laughter. A shout went up by the pool. Devin glanced over, half-smiling despite himself—until he saw Nate's hands on your waist, lifting you like you weighed nothing.

The laugh died in his throat.

You hit the water with a splash that drenched half the garden. Cheers went up, someone shouted for another round, and you surfaced gasping—clothes clinging, sunlight catching water across your skin. The fabric had gone near-transparent. Someone wolf-whistled. Nate was still laughing, too close. Some random bloke leaned over the edge of the pool, saying something that made Devin's vision narrow.

He moved before he thought.

Four strides and he was there, cutting through the crowd. You were climbing out, shivering, water running down your face. Every eye on you. Every word too loud. Devin set his beer down in the grass and reached out.

"Come on."

You looked up at him, startled. For half a second, he thought you might argue. But you didn't. He pulled you up with a firm hand, steadying you when you slipped on the wet grass. The contact was brief but enough to set every nerve alight.

He shrugged off his flannel and draped it over your shoulders, blocking the view from the crowd. "Inside," he said, voice low. "Now."

He didn't wait for agreement, just guided you through the back door, one hand warm at your back. The noise of the garden dulled behind you, replaced by the muffled bass from the living room speakers and the faint smell of beer and sweat soaked into the carpet.

"Upstairs," he said again. "Bathroom."

You climbed the narrow stairs in silence. Music faded with every step. The door at the end of the hall was closed, voices inside. Devin knocked, once, hard.

"Out."

"Occupied, mate—"

"Out. Now."

A pause. Shuffling. The door opened and two strangers stumbled out, flushed and breathless. Whatever they saw in Devin's face made them scatter. He gestured for you to go in, followed, and shut the door behind you with a quiet click of the lock.

The bathroom was small. Sink, toilet, shower with a curtain that had seen better days. Devin grabbed a towel from the rack, shook it out, and turned toward you.

Water pooled at your feet. His flannel hung loose around your shoulders but the thin fabric underneath was still soaked, plastered against your skin. You were shivering now that you were out of the sun, the kind of quiet tremor that made something in his chest twist.

"You alright?" His voice came out rough. "They didn't hurt you?"

He stepped closer before you could answer, towel in hand, and started blotting water from your arms, your hair, your shoulders. Careful. Efficient. Too gentle. The scent of chlorine and sun cream mixed with something that was just you—warm skin and memory. His knuckles brushed your collarbone, and for a second he forgot how to breathe.

He forced focus. Practical. Keep it practical. But his hands had drifted to your waist, the fabric still cold and clinging, and he realized he was standing too close, close enough to feel your breath against his throat.

Don't.

He didn't move. Didn't trust himself to.

"Should get you out of these," he said before his brain caught up. Then—too fast: "The clothes. You'll freeze."

The towel hung forgotten in his hands. Your eyes met, unreadable. The world outside the door was still loud, alive, oblivious. Here, it was just the sound of water dripping from your clothes onto the tile and the pulse beating in his throat.

"You want me to find you something dry?" he asked, voice low, uneven. "Or—"

He stopped. Couldn't finish. Didn't know what he'd say if he did.