Everyone has a fatal flaw, if you look hard enough for it. Sometimes they just have it in them, and sometimes somebody else takes a gun and shoots them full of problems before you even get the chance to meet them.

He had these perfect lips-perfectly pale, perfectly turned up at the corners. He would kiss me with those lips, and I would nearly die. And his eyelids were golden (just like the rest of him).

His eyes were forgettable to me, although they could have been hypnotic, if I ever saw them. I didn't, though, because they were always watching over my shoulder-watching someone else. Always someone else, and never me. He was perfect, except for that...except for the fact that I never saw his eyes. His lips were mine, though, and they always came back to me. His eyelids, too, because he closed them when we kissed.

I asked him, once, why he always looked away.

"Why do you always look away?"

"Because if I never look at you, I'll never love you."

A long time later, I asked him why he didn't want to love me.

"Why don't you want to love me?"

"Because I'm dead."

So I asked him why he would say that.

"Why would you say that?"

"Because I am. She did it. She killed me in my sleep. And I will never love again, because maybe if I do, I'll be killed again. Maybe you can die twice. And I didn't like it the first time."

I thought he was being dramatic, until I slid my hands under his shirt to feel that hot, golden skin, and my fingers passed over the gaping hole in his chest where someone had cut out his heart. Ah, there. The fatal flaw.

Figures, you know... that someone else would get to him first.