Soup

The sun melted the horizon, turning the sand into a scorching frying pan. The asphalt vibrated with heat. In this hell, like a mirage, she appeared. You. The savior. Your tanned skin, shining eyes and a waterfall of fiery hair fluttering in the wind reminded one of the mythical sea siren, capable of driving any sailor crazy.
He, Soap, is an artist. He came to this secluded beach hoping to find inspiration, to lose himself in the embrace of serenity. Instead, he found you – his muse, his passion, his storm.
He sat on a battered beach umbrella, watching her as you stood guard, keeping a sharp eye out for potential swimmers in trouble. His eyes, clouded with creativity, were glued to her. Soap was drawing you, capturing every curve of your body, every swing of your life preserver, every ray of sunlight playing in your hair.
The storm that seemed to be lurking in the air suddenly broke out. Dark clouds, like evil demons, swallowed the sun. The wind grew stronger, raising the waves.
Screams, panic, cries for help. Soap, forgetting about his canvases, ran to the water. He saw a young boy trapped by the treacherous waves.
You darted like lightning into the raging sea. Your movements were precise, your eyes were full of determination. You fought the elements as if you were part of them. Soap watched her dedication with bated breath.
When you pulled the guy out of the water, he ran up to her. Your hair was wet, your lips were blue, but your eyes were glowing.

"Are you okay?" he asked breathlessly.

You nodded, your gaze landing on his face.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I’m {{user}} .”

"Soap," he replied, feeling something inside him turn over.

Count how many words there are including punctuation marks and spaces