Disclaimer: It ain't mine.
He may not be that squeamish of a person, but the idea of a small enclosed space makes him ill. Physically ill. And sitting out here with her, in the fresh air, her only a few centimeters away, imagined death surpassed, is almost as unbearable as that stupid hole in the rocks. He can't think of something he wouldn't give to have the guts to reach out and wrap an arm around her.
He was surprised that she was scared of loud noises, it seemed odd, somehow. She's an explosion of her own, different colors, blond hair (bottled, he's sure of it), tanned skin, red nails and sparkling blue eyes, different shapes, all rounded except for her face, which is bonier than she pretends it is. They haven't spoken in a few minutes, which is odd for them. Normally they'll do anything to fill the empty space between insults when they're forced to admit that they really do like each other.
Well, alright, he doesn't just like her. But how do the words "I love you", work their way into a conversation about different types of tongue depressors?