She isn't afraid of much. She doesn't balk at spiders, death, disease. The world may disgust her, sometimes, but she's working on saving the world and anyway, she isn't afraid of it.
But she's afraid of heights, and of falling.
She's afraid of drowning.
She isn't afraid of him.
She isn't afraid of his eyes, which pierce through her and unravel every mask, every wall she's ever built up, which lay bare to the world her unworthiness. Which sink claws of ice into her heart.
She isn't afraid of his mouth, the thin lips that twist so elegantly into the ugliest of expressions, the ones which laugh at her in scorn, hatred, innate superiority.
She isn't afraid of his chin, held so high she feels as if she's nothing but kitchen ash, not fit to fill in the cracks in the marble beneath his feet.
She isn't afraid of his eyes, a smoldering grey that makes her feel like she's burning alive, makes her want to scream and cry.
She isn't afraid of his mouth, so beautifully carved and so utterly untouchable, so utterly wantable.
She isn't afraid of his chin, not when she tucks her head underneath it and he holds her close and she feels like the world doesn't need to be saved; it's just her who does.
But she's afraid of drowning.
She's afraid of heights, and of falling.
She falls, and she drowns in him.