The sky had been clear all morning. Blue, bright, and perfect for a day at the beach.

Then the clouds rolled in.

At first, it was just a few dark patches drifting in from the ocean, like someone had spilled ink across the sky.

But then the wind picked up.

And the waves got bigger.

You’re standing beside Brody at the lifeguard tower, watching the ocean like it’s changing shape.

Brody’s face is tense, eyes sharp.

“Everyone out of the water,” he says, voice steady but urgent.

You nod and start blowing your whistle, signaling the swimmers to get to shore.

People groan, complain, and some ignore you.

You keep blowing anyway.

“Brody,” you say, “this is getting serious.”

Brody doesn’t take his eyes off the water. “I know. That’s why we need to clear the beach.”

You glance around and see families packing up, kids crying, and a few surfers stubbornly trying to ride the waves.

You feel your stomach twist.

You don’t want anyone to get hurt.

You look at Brody, who’s already moving—commanding, focused, in control.

“Come on,” he says. “We need to help.”

The Storm Hits

The wind gets stronger, and the rain starts.

It doesn’t fall gently—it hits the sand like it’s angry.

Brody grabs a walkie-talkie and radios in. “All units, clear the beach. We’re going to move people to safety.”

You’re trying to help, but the wind makes it hard to stand.

The waves crash harder and louder, like the ocean is roaring.

Then you hear it.

A scream.

You turn and see a surfer being dragged out by a powerful current.

Your heart stops.

You don’t think.

You run toward the water.

Brody shouts, “Don’t!”

But you’re already in the surf.

The water hits you, cold and violent. You struggle against the current, trying to reach the surfer.

Your arms burn.

Your lungs burn.

You’re not sure if you can make it.

Then you feel a hand grab your wrist.

Brody’s face is right in front of you, eyes wide and fierce.

“Grab the rescue buoy!” he shouts.

You grab it and hold on tight.

Brody pulls you back toward shore, using every ounce of strength he has.

When you finally reach the sand, you collapse, coughing and shaking.

Brody kneels beside you, his breath heavy.

“You’re not supposed to do that,” he says, voice shaking with anger and fear.

You look up at him, water dripping from your hair.

“I had to,” you whisper. “He needed help.”

Brody’s expression softens for a moment, but then he pulls you into a tight hug.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he says, voice low. “I can’t lose you.”

You freeze in his arms.

Your heart is pounding.

You can hear the storm raging around you, but for a moment, it feels like the world is quiet.

Brody holds you like you’re the only thing that matters.

After the Storm

The storm finally passes, leaving behind a battered beach and exhausted lifeguards.

Brody helps people get to safety, his voice still strong and commanding.

But every few minutes, he looks over at you, like he’s making sure you’re still okay.

When everything is calm again, he finally approaches you.

His hair is wet, his uniform dirty, and his eyes look tired.

He kneels down in front of you.

“Are you okay?” he asks.