Page 99 of Pull Me Under

The journey back is quiet.

The casualties are in the cabin, wrapped in foil blankets, being tended by Tom. The yacht sank three minutes after we pulled the last person off – just slipped beneath the waves like she’d been waiting for permission.

Cal’s back at the helm, guiding us through the swells, which are calmer now that we’re heading with the current instead of against it. Bill secures equipment, moving with the automatic efficiency of a man who’s done this a thousand times.

And Jude is beside me on the deck, a blanket around his shoulders, his breathing slowly returning to normal.

He went in the water.

He could have died.

The thought keeps circling, a shark in dark water, and every time it surfaces, I have to push it back down. Not now. Later. Deal with it later, when there’s time, when there’s space, when he’s not sitting right there with salt water still dripping from his hair.

‘Brynn.’

His voice is rough. Scraped raw by cold and seawater.

‘Don’t,’ I say. ‘Whatever you’re going to say. Just … don’t.’

‘I was going to say thank you.’

‘I said don’t.’

He’s quiet for a moment. Then, so soft I almost miss it: ‘Okay.’

The harbour lights appear through the mist. Sea Salt Bay, waiting to welcome us home.

I don’t let go of his hand.

The boathouse is bright chaos – medics for the casualties, the coastguard wanting statements.

I move through it like a ghost.

Someone takes my drysuit. Someone puts a cup of tea in my hands. Someone mentions shock, about sitting down, about that was incredible, Brynn, that throw was incredible⁠—

I don’t process any of it.

Because Jude is across the room, being checked over by a medic, and he’s looking at me. Just looking. Like I’m the only thing in focus and everything else is blur.

The medic is talking to him. He nods without breaking eye contact.

Then he’s standing. Walking toward me. The blanket is still around his shoulders and his lips are still bluish and he’s moving like every step hurts.

He stops in front of me. Close. Too close for public.

‘Take me home,’ he says.

It’s not a question.

‘Mine?’

‘Yours.’

I don’t ask why. Don’t need to.

We don’t speak on the walk to the cottage.

The rain has stopped, leaving the village washed clean and glistening under the streetlights. Our footsteps echo off the cobblestones. Somewhere, a dog barks. A light goes on in an upstairs window, then off again.