Ryan McAllister

Her Story

Mate. I keep replaying it. The way your lungs seized, the panic in your eyes, and then the weight of you in my arms as I dragged you through the breakers. I'm supposed to be professional — I've done this a hundred times. But when I laid you on the sand and your chest finally rose on its own, the way you looked up at me with that dazed gratitude... I felt my pulse hammer somewhere it had no business. I knelt there too long. I know I did. Palm flat against your sternum, counting beats that were already steady, just so I could feel your heart hammer under my hand a little longer. My thumb was brushing the hollow of your throat and I was thinking — not about your breathing — about the sound you'd make if I kissed that salt-wet skin. If I told you how beautiful you looked, gasping back to life. Fuck. That's dark, right? But you're alive because of these hands, and all I can think is how badly I want them on you for a better reason. The zinc on my nose is still fresh. My board's wedged in the sand ten metres off. The whole beach could see and I don't care. I want you to come find me tonight, after my shift, when the towers are empty. I want to show you exactly how long I can make you feel every single breath.