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I sigh.
Damn him.
He knows me too well.
We’ve been together only a six weeks, but somehow he already recognizes every little shift in my mood.
And there’s something I’ve been trying not to think about.
Something that keeps creeping into my thoughts whenever I look at him.
His perfect face.
His enormous body.
The silver-violet eyes that will never fade.
He is immortal.
I am not.
One day, I’ll grow old.
My hair will turn gray.
My skin will wrinkle.
My body will weaken.
And he’ll still look exactly like this.
I swallow.
“Morpheus?”
“Yes, sweet girl?”
“What happens when I die?”
His hand stops moving.
He looks at me.
“Excuse me?”
I force a smile.
“You know. When I’m old.”
His expression changes.
Not with sadness.
Not with fear.
With confusion.
“Why would you grow old?”
