He asked me once, long ago, what I was most afraid of. It was an unusual question, I suppose, and not one I was prepared to answer.
He asked me again four years or so later, casually, mouth pressed close to my ear. “What are you most afraid of?”
I closed my eyes, pressing my face against the warmth of his neck, trying to imagine what could possibly be my worst fear. I thought of all the things I went through, what I had seen, tried to decide what, if anything, was a great fear to me.
I thought then of the time I almost lost him, how I had imagined his life draining out of him. I thought of when we found him, pale and chilled and how I had choked back tears and feared the worst. I always feared the worst then.
“What are you most afraid of, Elena?”
I blinked up at his inquisitive face and decided maybe honesty wasn’t the best policy. (After all, bringing up the past never did do any good.)
“You,” I told him quietly, resting my head against his shoulder. “You.”