I was eight years old, and I was hiking in a mountain pass with Charlie. He had whipped out a camera to take a picture of me. There were a lot of people, so they wore exasperated expressions on their faces when they had to stop for my dad's sake. I blushed about being the center of attention.
I crept closer to the edge, so he could get a better shot. I took a step backwards, and I twisted along a piece of rock, inclining backwards. I let out a shriek of fear. I was going to fall.
A pair of icy hands caught me by the side, rescuing me. My blood was pulsing through me, my body shaking in relief. I was saved.
The first thing I noticed was his eyes, the color of honey. The boy had a weird colored shade to his hair, almost penny-like. He had a pale face with nice features. He couldn't be older than seventeen, by the looks of it. He could of passed for one of those actors I had seen on T.V.
"Are you okay?" he asked roughly. I nodded, whimpering. He still hadn't let go of me, and I shivered at the touch of his cold skin. I looked back at Charlie, who was approaching. People were walking past, moving on.
"Thank you," I said, turning around to meet his eyes.
But he was gone.