Wells always said he loved getting wet, getting caught in the rain.

Not the soft kind. Not the polite kind. The kind that comes down warm, heavy, and golden, soaking through every inch of him until his shirt clings, his hair drips, and that smug little Toronto grin spreads across his face like he knows exactly what he asked for.

Coach noticed it first.

Wells did not run from the storm. He stepped into it. Chest up. Smile wide. Eyes closed. Letting the gold pour over him until he looked less like a Bro caught in bad weather and more like a Bro being blessed by something filthy, sacred, and very, very Golden.

And Wells being Wells?

He did not keep it to himself.

He called the Bros closer.

“Come on,” he laughed, already dripping. “Don’t just stand there dry.”

One by one, they got wet with him. Shoulders shining. Shirts darkening. Golden water sliding down muscle, soaking fabric, turning the whole scene into something half ritual, half dare, a little dirty and completely Wells.

Some Bros like to stay clean, some like to get dirty.

Wells prefers them wet, laughing, dripping, and golden.