Laurel can see Wes looking around the terminal out of the corner of her eye. Children are running wild around the chairs, annoyed looks being shot at their parents who obliviously did nothing. The screaming chaos giving Wes an excuse to let his mind wander, his leg bouncing up and down, restlessly, as his hands slide against his jeans, likely wiping the sweaty feeling that seemed to have overcome him.
She drops her phone from her view, and reaches out with her own hand, landing on his knee.
"Sorry," he apologizes, not meeting her eyes but instead focusing on her fingers that gently swept across the span of his leg, trying to calm him down.
"You really don't like flying, do you?" She asks sympathetically, not wanting to have inflicted even more emotional stress on him than was already swirling around in that head of his.
"What?" He stumbles, distracted by her hand. "Umm, no, not really," he admits, his anxious energy channeling into a jittery mess of limbs.
She nods silently at him, letting him have his silence, but still keeps her hand firmly planted on him until they board the plane.
Once situated, she pulls out a book, determined to get some studying done on this impromptu trip, distract her mind from the paper resting in her bag. The truth of his mother's death hidden from his view, her shield of protection shrouding him in his ignorance, refusing to let him get hurt again.
Her arm rest against the tiny window, her fingers working through her hair, twisting strands, before letting them flop back into place, her pen hitting the book every once in a while in a nervous habit that seemed to annoy most everyone. Everyone except the man sitting next to her.
Slamming her book shut, she turns her attention towards him.
Noticing her eyes on him, he stills. Bringing his head back to the seat, his eyes closing in the process, but his hands still swiping at his pants.
This time Laurel reaches out, grabbing his hand instead, his jittery long fingers immediately intertwining with her own, bringing a soft smile to her face that he doesn't even notice with his eyes resting shut.
"Why me?" He whispers into the cabin of the airplane, hitting her ears, causing the grip she has on his hand to twitch into a squeeze, unsure of what he's referring to, but the pain dripping from his words seems to be transferred through the connection of their hands, shaking her awake, and glancing down at them.
When she doesn't respond, he peeks his eye open at her with a grin.
"The kiss," he throws out, shattering their silent agreement to not bring that up.
"What do you mean?" She stalls, her other hand coming to her mouth, working her fingernail in that nervous way that always has him shaking his head at her.
"It was a mistake, right?" He asks, trepidation tinging his words, and causing her eyes to jolt up to his own, the soft brown searching her face for a sign, any sign, of how to tread through the situation she'd put them in.
Her lips purse, her brow furrowed, trying to steel her expression, and failing miserably, striking something that looks a bit like hurt mixed with confusion.
"Moment of weakness, you were there, I just…you're a good listener," she says casually, peeking at him through her dark lashes.
"Right," he hesitantly agrees, and her eyes go wide, as she cocks her head to the side, a silly expression she doesn't even realize she's making.
"Yeah," she says leaning back against her seat, extracting her hand from his. "Just a comforting kiss between friends," she justifies with a little laugh, a crooked grin, with obvious eyes challenging her statement.
"You were sad, you would've kissed anyone in that moment," he ventures, his leg going back to jumping up and down in small motions.
Her hand moves to smack his chest at that comment, a raised eyebrow daring him to say more.
He laughs, but his hands fly up in surrender as he stumbles over his explanation.
"That's…that's not what I meant," his puppy dog eyes begging for forgiveness.
"I know," she says, letting him off the hook.
She slides her head still resting on the back of the chair so only her face is turned towards him, her hair pulled back behind her ears, her eyes fiercely blue, contrasted with the blue of the seat.
"Wes," she says, catching his attention from his lap, the overwhelming guilt over everything this man didn't know about what she was hiding, not just the paper she'd stolen. The security she seemed to feel whenever he was near, the slight tingle she'd feel whenever their hands met, sure that he was the type of good she needed in her life, but too afraid to reach out and take it for herself, instead clinging to those who only brought her down, maintaining a friendship with Wes, while yearning for more, the kiss from last night only sparking that notion into something of a lightning storm inside her. Struck.
"Laurel," he says, calling her back.
She fights the words she wants to say with the words threatening to screech out of her mouth with a ferocity she's sure he's not ready for. Sure that a relationship with her would only strip him of everything good, leaving him with nothing, and her with unsurmountable guilt.
"I wouldn't have kissed anyone else," she finally admits.