Every muscle in Lily's body ached. Whether it was down to the workout, or heels all day, she didn't know. She heaved the kettle back to its stand and collapsed against the cupboard, physically too exhausted to move again. She let out a small, defeated groan. Her chest squeezed, not being able to shake off the constant panic of impending doom. It was so easy to feel like she'd not fulfilled her role to the best of her abilities. What about the paperwork? What about that one patient she'd discharged? What about the one who was referred to the council and put on a waiting list? And the one from the care home? All these people she'd been responsible for.
Still, she managed to shakily lift the mug of tea to her lips. It had formed a layer on the top, congealed. Made and forgotten about. Surprisingly, the lukewarm liquid wasn't unpleasant. In fact, it actually soothed her throat as it passed down.
Her phone lit up, so she squinted to see the display. Without contacts or glasses, it was too blurry for her to make out the letters, but the name was far too long to be his. In fact, it was probably the clinical lead.
She pursed her lips and exhaled slowly, trying not to feel annoyed. He was probably trying to tread carefully or give her space. After all, she had been the one to be so set on going home. Iain wasn't to blame.
-x-
Iain sat in his room, mulling things over. She was so fiercely stubborn, and he wished he'd insisted on her staying a little bit more. Just in case.
He checked his phone. No message. Sighing, he flopped on to his bed. Sleep was calling him and in the absence of anyone else, he knew he had to put himself first. It was about time he did so anyway.
-x-
A sea. Beautiful, crystal clear, gentle waves. The piercing blue contrasted sharply with the golden sand. All of it incredibly inviting. Lily stretches out her toes, wriggling them in the sand. She doesn't exactly love the beach, but Iain does. She happily watches from the land as he swims about taking the view in. The whole beach is heaving with people, and to her relief, seemingly heaving with lifeguards too. They patrol along the sand in their red uniform, strolling leisurely yet alert of the water.
He calls to her, but it's muffled. She can't quite make it out so she smiles back, the sort of lazy smile that you only give to certain people. He beckons this time, making her giggle. She shakes her head indignantly. He wants her to go in. Under no circumstance will she allow herself to be persuaded, even though it's him. Especially because it's him, actually.
Again, this time it's more of a shout.
'No!' She finds herself replying. She can't see, but she knows he rolls his eyes as he swims off. She gives a shake of the head and traces a thumb along the soggy brown paper, trying to find the page she was last on. Minutes trickle away as she finds herself more and more engrossed in the story. All distractions are blissfully tuned out. It's relaxing and it's perfect.
The clamour of the beach begins to rise, so much so, it's intrusive. She looks up to see what's going on. People - lifeguards - are dashing about the sand. She strains to listen to the couple with a baby on the towel next to her. She's spent hours trying to tune these people out - their child has done nothing but scream - but now she's keen to listen.
Heavily accented, but luckily English.
A wave. Dozens of people washed out.
She looks up, but she already knows. Her lungs burn, legs won't stand up.
Iain.
Lily awoke, covered in a thin film of her own sweat. Relief rushed through her veins as all the dread dissolved. She caught her breath, as if she'd just been running. Noticing her throbbing head, she fumbled in the drawer beside her bed and swallowed two paracetamol in one big gulp. Her eyes then fixed on the wall ahead. It was okay. Everything was okay. Better than okay, it was manageable. She hadn't disgraced herself this time, or even been particularly noisy. It was more mild than the last too. With this thought, she settled back down.
Back at the beach. Running towards the sea, laughing, smiling. She was noisier than most of the toddlers, but she didn't care. She'd squeal as much as she wanted. There was everything to be happy for.
He demands a race, so she swims after him as fast as she can. She's determined not to be beaten. If competitiveness could be scored, he'd be a 9/10 and she'd be an 11/10. He flicks water at her to try and slow down the opponent. It works and she coughs and splutters, stopping briefly to fill her lungs with the air they demand. They can't touch the bottom anymore, not even on tiptoes. He seems to be flailing, but she's not. Triumphant, she calls to him.
'Struggling?'
He gives a little gasp as a reply. She takes this as a yes and continues swimming gleefully. It's fallen quiet behind her. She turns round, confusion taking hold. Nobody is behind for miles. Not another boat, or lifeguard, or person, or Iain. No one.
Panic constricts her airways again as she dips underwater. The salty water stings her skin. It's beyond panic, it's blind desperation - literally blind desperation. She realises it's silly and futile. Her eyes don't serve her well at the best of times, never mind metres underwater. Bubbles escape her lips as her body fights to breathe. It wants oxygen, but it doesn't understand that she wants him more.
Then, she spots him. A dot, floating further and further to the bottom, mouth wide open. Sinking. She wants to scream, but even in her state, she knows better. Her lungs are burning now, a threat that she can't go on. She's gasping somehow, breaking the rules, screaming for him. If she can do it loud enough, he might hear.
She woke up sobbing, uncontrollable fits of shudders that were almost involuntary in their convulsive nature. Heat poured off her cheeks; a mirror didn't need to tell her they were redder than the carpet on her floor. Tendrils of hair clung to her forehead. Her hand scrabbled across the surface of the cabinet, searching for her phone.
In less than two clicks, it was ringing. Once, twice, three times. He answered before the fourth ring.
'It-' She tried to begin, overcome by emotion. The break in her voice caused him to interrupt.
'I'm coming.'
He took the stairs two at a time, trying to bury the panic that kept rising in his chest. Courtesy and manners went out the window, and he barged straight through the door that had, rather conveniently, been put on latch.
Running his hands down his face, he surveyed the flat, not seeing her anywhere. Then she was there. He seized her by the wrist, frantic, accidentally rough. Bodies pressed together, he held her between the folds of his arms. She was always comforted by the balance of strength yet softness he managed to embrace her with. It was her safe place, for she didn't have to say a word. It was her home.
It wouldn't be the right time to say 'told you'. Even so, he felt determined to prevent it happening again. It took him ten minutes to get to her flat - ten minutes of erratic driving (that she would definitely not approve on, despite her state). Those ten minutes had been ten too long.