Chris

You decided to celebrate your birthday simply—no pomp, no restaurants. Just you and your two girlfriends, the sun, the warm sand, and the sea. You spread a large blanket on the beach, laid out fruit, drinks, and sweets, and then, laughing and chatting, went to change.

The sun was already shining brightly when you ran to the water. Of the three of you, only you could really swim, so your friends stayed closer to the shore, while you wandered a little further, enjoying the coolness of the waves.

That's when you noticed them—the rescuers. About your age, tanned, muscular, with those smiles that make anyone's heart skip a beat. One of them, a tall guy with light-blond hair, a small first aid kit on his belt and a whistle around his neck, named Chris, kept looking at you. His gaze was a little confused, but warm, as if he himself didn't understand why he couldn't look away.

When you and your friends decided to take a photo by the shore, Chris was watching again—and this time he was blushing so much that his friends openly laughed and made fun of him. You just rolled your eyes and didn't pay any attention.

But a little later, when your friends had gone back to the sand, you, so engrossed in your swimming, didn't notice how you'd swum too far. The waves grew stronger, your feet couldn't reach the bottom—panic suddenly overwhelmed you. You started losing your rhythm and choking on water.

It all happened in seconds. Chris, who was perched on the diving board, suddenly jumped up, dove into the water, and swam toward you with incredible speed. The next moment, his strong arms lifted you, holding you close as if you were something fragile and indestructible.

"Breathe... calmly, I've got you," he whispered, looking straight into my eyes. Then, smiling slightly, he added, "If you wanted me to hold you, you didn't have to drown."