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“Get her out of those clothes.”

“Make sure she doesn’t get sick.”

Victor’s instructions pass through a funnel before reaching my ears.

He picks her up with ease while I unfold myself from the ground.

There’s no clarity, but I get up anyway.

Delilah is still too limp, but I get up anyway.

She’s breathing.

She’s awake.

She needs to dry off and get out of these clothes.

We make it to my room and Delilah’s gasps turn into a low whimpering.

It’s the only sound I hear as she wraps her arms around my neck and burrows her face against my skin.

It takes everything in me to pull away from her, but I have to get her out of these clothes.

Mechanically, I strip her out of the drenched skirt and tank top, drying her from head to toe.

Boxers.

Crew socks.

A hoodie. Sweatpants.

The layers go on with ease and precision.

And we’re matching after I shed my damp clothes and change too.

Then I settle on my bed and pull her back into my arms.

Victor helps me keep her awake for an hour, thermometer in hand as he searches for signs of dry drowning.

When he finally lets a crying Delilah bury her face in my neck, Victor is confident when he tells me she’s fallen asleep and hasn’t passed out.

“Why did this happen?” My voice is muffled, distant.

“I think she had a panic attack, sir.”

A panic attack? In the fucking pool?

I don’t move.

If I don’t move, this moment can’t end.

She can’t go back to how she was before I pulled her out of that water.

Soreness settles in my muscles. Not because she’s heavy, but because my grip on her is unrelenting.

If I don’t let go, this moment can’t end.

Dropping my chin on top of the towel covering her hair, I exhale. It’s shaky. Broken. Tormented.