Liam saw it happen. He saw the cloud of silt, the sudden jerk of her body, the regulator drifting loose. He moved before the last bubble rose. He was a dark streak through the blue, closing the distance in two powerful kicks. He wrapped an arm around her chest, just under her arms, and clamped his other hand over her mouth and nose. She fought him. Instinct made her thrash, her heels connecting with his shins, her elbows driving back into his ribs. Her eyes were wide, white-rimmed with terror, seeing nothing. He locked her tighter against him, the hard plane of his chest against her back, and kicked for the surface.

The ascent felt too slow. He felt the desperate heave of her diaphragm trying to draw air that wasn’t there, the awful, wet rattle in her throat. Her struggles grew weaker, her limbs turning leaden. Her head lolled back against his shoulder.

Her body went completely limp in his arms. The dead weight of her was a different kind of terror. He pushed harder at the ascent, driving them upward with a brutal, punishing force. The pressure screamed in his own ears. He didn’t care. He burst through the surface into the shocking brightness of the sky, hauling her with him, her face pale and lifeless against.

He shifted his grip, one arm banding across her back to keep her head above water. With his free hand, he ripped his own regulator from his mouth and tore her mask from her face. “Elena.” Her name was a command, harsh and raw. He tipped her head back, pinched her nose, and sealed his mouth over hers. He breathed into her, a hard, forceful exhale. He felt no give, no response. Salt water trickled from the corner of her mouth. He did it again, his own breath starting to saw in his chest.

“Breathe!” He commanded, continuing to push himself to the shore.

He pulls her onto the edge of the beach, just enough to be out of the water.

He didn’t stop. His palms drove down onto her sternum again, the force of the compressions jolting her limp body on the wet sand. One, two, three, four, five... Finishing the set of compressions, he tilted her head back, sealed his mouth over hers, and breathed hard into her lungs. He tasted salt and terror. He pulled back, watched for the rise of her chest. Nothing. He went back to the compressions, the rhythm brutal and unyielding. His own breath was a ragged saw in his throat. “Breathe, damn you.” The command was gritted out between thrusts of his hands. Her skin was cold, her lips a chilling blue. He breathed for her again, his hands cradling her jaw, his thumbs rough against her cheeks.

On the next round of compressions, her body arched under his hands. A guttural, wrenching cough tore from her throat. Salt water erupted from her mouth in a violent rush. Liam rolled her onto her side instantly, his arm hooking around her waist to keep her there as she choked, gasping, vomiting seawater onto the sand. Her body convulsed with the effort, each retch a raw, physical struggle for air. He held her through it, his hand splayed across her trembling stomach, his own heart hammering against his ribs. When the spasms subsided into ragged, wet sobs of inhalation, he saw it. Her right hand, her fist was locked white-knuckle tight. Between her fingers, the sharp, cream-colored curve of the conch shell protruded, gripped like a lifeline.

“Slowly breathe. Gentle.” He let out the command. He didn’t move her. He stayed crouched beside her, his body a shield against the sun in the vast, empty cove. The only sounds were the lap of the waves and her desperate, scraping breaths. Slowly, the blue receded from her lips, replaced by a pallid, washed-out pink. Her coughing gentled to shudders. Her eyes were screwed shut, long lashes dark and wet against her cheeks. Water soaked her hair, plastering the brown waves to her scalp and shoulders. The crimson material of her swimsuit was slick and dark against her skin, her slender body curled on its side. He looked from her face to the shell, its pink interior gleaming against her white-knuckled grip. She hadn’t let go. Not when she was drowning. Not when he was pounding the life back into her.

His hand, which had been pressed to her stomach, moved. He didn’t grab her wrist. He covered her clenched fist with his own, his palm engulfing her hand and the shell it contained. The heat of his skin was a shock against her cold. He felt the fine, relentless tremor running through her. He sat there in the sand, kneeling beside her, not speaking, just letting the solid weight of his hand rest over hers. The silence stretched, filled only by the ocean and her slowing breath. His thumb moved, a slow, unconscious stroke across her knuckles.

Her eyes opened. They were glassy, unfocused, the green dulled by shock. They found his face, looming above her. There was no recognition, just a blank animal awareness. A tear welled, cutting a clean track through the salt on her cheek. It dripped onto the sand between them. He watched it fall. He didn’t wipe it away. His hand remained over hers, anchoring the shell, anchoring her. The moment hung, fragile and vast as the sky above them, stripped of every pretense of control or strategy. There was only this: her broken breathing, the conch, and his hand holding them both.

“Im Sorry.” Her voice let out harshly.

“You're okay. Don’t worry, I have you.” He said. Watching as her eyes reclosed. Losing consciousness again.

Liam didn't ask. He slid one arm under her knees and the other behind her shoulders, lifting her from the sand as if she weighed nothing. The conch shell, still locked in her fist, pressed against his chest. She didn’t make a sound, just let her head fall against his shoulder, her damp hair cool against his neck. He carried her up the beach, back to the 4-wheeler. Taking a towel from the bag and wrapped it around her.

The drive back to the beach house was slow. Liam gently held her in his lap as he carefully worked his way through the terrain back to the beach house. He held her firmly, adjusting his grip only to shift her weight higher against him. Her breathing was shallow, each inhalation a faint tremor against his skin. He could feel the rapid flutter of her heartbeat where her back pressed into him.

Once they had returned, he shouldered open the sliding glass door and carried her straight through the living area to the master bedroom. He set her down on the wide, sun-warmed bedding. She was still unconscious.

He reached for the clasp of her swimsuit top at the center of her back. His fingers moved with precision. The clasp released with a quiet click. He peeled the wet crimson fabric from her skin, letting it fall to the floor with a sodden slap. Her breasts were bare, pale, and tipped with tight, chilled peaks.

He hooked his thumbs into the sides of her bikini bottoms and drew them down her legs. He knelt to lift each foot, removing the scrap of fabric completely. She was naked before him, shivering slightly, seawater and fine black sand clinging to her thighs. The moment utterly devoid of desire. It was a clinical necessity, and something more: a claiming of responsibility.

He stood beside the bed, looking down at her. The shell was still in her hand, now resting on the bed with her. She hadn’t let go once.

She then started to stir. Her eyes looked at him with a foggy look.

“Sleep,” he said, his voice a low rumble.

“You’re leaving?” Her voice was a raw scrape, the first words she’d spoken since the beach.

“No.”

He walked to the other side of the bed, stripped off his wet board shorts, and draped them over a chair. Naked, he slid into the bed beside her, under the blanket. He didn’t reach for her. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling fan turning slowly overhead. The space between them on the wide mattress was a charged, silent gulf.

Minutes passed. The only sound was their breathing, slowly synchronizing. Then, a small shift in the sheets. Her hand, the one not clutching the shell, crept across the cotton. Her fingertips brushed the back of his hand where it rested on the mattress between them.

It was the barest touch.

His hand turned over, palm up. He didn’t look at her. He waited. Her cold fingers slid into his, threading through, gripping with a sudden, desperate strength. He closed his hand around hers, holding it tight. He felt the fine tremors still running through her, and he held on until, gradually, they ceased. Her breathing deepened, slowed by exhaustion. She slept.

Liam lay awake, her hand locked in his, the weight of her trust and her terror a new and terrible burden in his chest. The plan, the strategy, the cold calculus—it all had turned to dust. There was only the warm grip of her hand, the silent, spinning fan, and the memory of her body going limp in the deep blue water.

********************