The park had felt almost too perfect that afternoon, all soft gold light slanting through the oaks and the air thick with the scent of warm earth. Rory walked beside me with his hands in his pockets, the faded navy shirt open at the throat, laughing at something I’d said about the ducks fighting over a crust.
I’d worn the pale sage linen dress because it moved with the breeze, the hem brushing my calves, the thin straps sitting lightly on my shoulders. Every so often his arm would brush mine and I’d feel the warmth of him even through the fabric.
We were halfway along the long gravel path when the first fat drops hit the leaves above us.
It came down properly then, sudden and cold, the sky turning the colour of wet slate. Rory caught my hand without asking and we ran, the gravel sliding under our shoes.
Rain needled against my bare shoulders and the back of my neck. Within seconds the linen of the dress was drinking it in, the fabric darkening and clinging in heavy folds across my stomach and the tops of my thighs. Drops slid from my hairline, traced the curve of my cheek, and kept going, cool little paths that vanished into the neckline.
One ran straight down the centre of my chest and I felt it soak through, the dress moulding tighter with every step.
We slammed into the hallway, both of us dripping onto the floorboards, breathless and half laughing. The dress had gone almost translucent across my ribs and the soft swell of my breasts, the outline of everything beneath suddenly clear. Water still ran from the ends of my curls and dropped onto the wet fabric, making darker spots bloom.
Rory’s shirt was plastered to him too, the cotton transparent enough that I could see the line of his stomach when he bent to tug his shoes off. His gaze flicked over me once, quick and careful, then stayed on my face.
“Christ, Tessa. You’re absolutely drenched.”
I told him to wait while I found something dry and left the bedroom door open a little wider than I meant to. The wet dress peeled away from my skin with a soft sound, cool air rushing over the places the rain had already touched.
In the hallway mirror I caught the shape of him standing very still, the towel I’d thrown him hanging forgotten from one hand. He was watching the bare line of my back as I reached for the hanger, the way water still clung in the dip of my spine.
I didn’t shut the door. I pulled on the thin-strapped tank instead, the soft grey cotton sticking a little where I was still damp, and stepped back out.
The robe I handed him was oversized and a bit worn at the cuffs. He took it but didn’t put it on at once, just held it while more drops fell from my matted curls and landed, one after another, on the upper curve of my chest.
They rolled slowly into the shallow dip of my cleavage before the tank absorbed them. Rory’s eyes followed every one.
“You’re still raining,” he said, voice low, almost amused. “All over yourself.”
We ended up close on the sofa, the robe hanging open across his chest because he still hadn’t bothered with the belt. Every time I laughed the left strap of the tank slid down my arm and I had to hitch it back up, the movement making the fabric shift against my skin.
We kept replaying the moment the sky opened, both of us helpless with it, shoulders shaking. His knee rested against mine and the heat of him soaked through me whenever our skin touched.
Another drop from my curls landed just above the neckline and stayed there, shining.
“You’re staring,” I said, soft and a little teasing, tipping my head so more water slid free. “Is it the rain or have I got something on my face?”
He huffed a quiet laugh but didn’t look away. “Bit of both. Mostly the way that dress went see-through and now this…” His gaze dropped to the fallen strap again.
I let it stay down this time, the bare curve of my shoulder and the top of my arm on show. “You’ve never looked at me like that before. Not properly.”
Rory’s hand lifted, careful, and brushed a wet curl back from my cheek. His fingers lingered, sliding down until his palm rested warm against the side of my neck.
“I’ve wanted to,” he said, quieter now, the coyness gone from both of us. “Especially since everything ended with her. I just didn’t know if you’d want me to.”
I turned into the touch, my own voice lower. “I’ve liked you for ages, Rory. I just never said it out loud.”
The space between us vanished. His other hand settled at my waist, thumb stroking just beneath the hem of the tank, skin on damp skin. The kiss started slow, almost careful, then deepened until I felt the soft sound he made against my mouth.
When the strap slipped again he didn’t fix it. His fingers traced the bare line of my shoulder instead, then lower, following the path the raindrops had taken earlier.
He drew back only far enough to rest his forehead against mine, breathing uneven. “If we don’t stop now…”
I answered by curling my fingers into the open edge of the robe and tugging him closer, the rain still drumming against the windows, both of us already past the point of pretending this was still just friendship.
Rory’s mouth found mine again, slower this time, the kiss turning deep enough that I felt the low sound he made vibrate against my lips. His hand at my waist slid higher beneath the thin tank, palm warm and broad against the damp skin of my ribs, thumb brushing the soft underside of me in a way that made my breath catch.
The fallen strap stayed where it was. I felt the cotton shift with every small movement, the wet ends of my curls still dripping cool trails between my breasts while his open robe brushed my bare arm.
When he drew back just enough to look at me, his voice had gone rough. “Tell me to stop.”
The rain kept falling outside, but neither of us was listening anymore.
