He heard the splash before he saw the pale legs disappear below the icy surf. Had he taken the time to ponder, he would've marveled at the unfolding scene's uncanny resemblance to Pieter Bruegel's Landscape with the Fall of Icarus; but as the figure continued to struggle – at least until the churning current became too much and engulfed him or her whole – it appeared that his ever-wandering artist's eye would have to be put to rest. Sans hesitation or regard for the host of dangers that could ensue, he dove into the waves that roared, black with anger. Cutting gracefully through the turbulent seas with calculated, powerful strokes, he rapidly approached his mark. Gathering the lifeless form into his arms, he quickly gleaned that his rescue was no Icarus. Even in such a state, limp and lifeless on the wet sand, Ewan found her absolutely captivating. Thoroughly intrigued by this bewitching water nymph, he transferred the life that bloomed from his chest past her shapely, yet alarmingly translucent lips, sighing in relief as she rolled over and coughed up the excess sea water that had nearly claimed her life. Her tantalizing chest began to rise and fall beneath the clingy material of her drenched dress as she greedily gulped down the oxygen that her lungs craved. Drawing in breath after breath, the color slowly began to return to her pale complexion. Yet her eyes remained closed, shielding her soul from his hungry gaze. He brushed the dark strands of hair away from her face, tracing his long fingers down her temple, the curve of her neck and shoulders, the silky surface of her exposed arms, ending their journey at the slight slope of her hips. He reasoned that he was checking for bumps and scrapes, of which there were none, as he committed her image to memory. He wanted nothing more than to carry her off into the night with him, watching her until she came to. She would undoubtedly be confused about her surroundings, but would thank him profusely for saving her life. They would seek comfort around the fire, drink tea, and discuss art and music and literature. Together, they would live in seclusion, away from the harsh eyes of the world and society. She would be the cure for his loneliness.
His reverie was swiftly interrupted by a fumbling set of footsteps approaching from the distance. Although he had no wish to leave her, he could not risk being detected by the outside world just yet.
From his perch, he saw to it that she was being carried to safety, albeit awkwardly, by a rather gangly, dark haired young man. Knowing that his thoughts would be racing a lot more than usual that night, he retreated back to his quarters. Peeling off his wet dress shirt and jeans, he found himself thankful for the restlessness that provoked the late night promenade that he had taken earlier. He shuddered to think what might have happened had he not been there to pull her out of the water. Hopefully, she was safe and warm in a bed at General Hospital and hadn't been completely overtaken by hypothermia.
While he really hoped that they could meet again, he knew that he had to put an end to his borderline obsessive thoughts about this woman. He didn't know her in the slightest. In fact, this instantaneous attraction should have proved to be more unsettling. She would only serve as an unnecessary distraction from his mission. These were not the kind of thoughts that one had about someone that they just met – well, sort of met, and he had worked so hard to create a sense of normalcy for himself. He glanced over at the clock and saw that it was nearly two in the morning. He really needed to sleep; he had to put his best foot forward for his interview the following morning. Shortly afterwards, his eyelids finally met, his dreams consisting of the ocean and pale skin.