he knows you're afraid to fly, it's not as if you've been hiding the fact as a deep dark secret. but it's one thing to make off hand jokes about it, or to even thank him for the distraction brought by hours of nearly endless questions, and a complete other to see it in person. and you have sworn to yourself that you will not start off this trip, the longest amount of time you've been able to ever spend together, by utterly embarrassing yourself. you will not cry, you will not panic and you absolutely will not, under any circumstances, freak out a disproportionate amount for a four hour flight.

your determination is steadfast but only lasts the first half hour.

it takes only that long before the nerves that have been buzzing in your veins all day build to a level that makes your hands shake and sends you into an anxiety driven silent checklist. you reach a thin arm up to check the nozzles to make sure the maximum amount of cool air is blowing directly at you, you double check that the window shade is all the way up and the seatbelt is tight around your waist. you try to set your hands flat on the tray table set down in front of you as you close your eyes and try to imagine you are literally anywhere but here.

maybe a nearly deserted beach. maybe you're sharing a towel on soft sand in the shade with a certain man whose skin is too warm from the sun and you're sitting so close you can feel it. and maybe you're talking and laughing at half jokes about being happy to help with more sunscreen. and maybe you're aligned just perfectly, so that it would take nothing at all to close the space between you and press your lips to his.

by the time he grabs your arm, the bouncing of your knee an obvious give away that this particular tactic has not been a calming distraction (and in fact, has you feeling altogether nervous in a different way, not that he'd know that) you keep from speaking up, afraid your voice will easily give you away. your eyes pop open and meet his and you know already that the jig is up anyway, he knows you too well.

his fingers trail from your forearm to wrist, keeping a light pressure against your pulse point, though that does not exactly help your racing heart. and without drawing further attention to it all, without asking if you're okay (because he already knows you're not) he simply starts talking. babbling really, about everything and anything, subjects that don't require your participation, allowing you to just listen, to just breathe as you rest your temple against his shoulder.

it's not a totally uneventful flight. there's a moment when, in typical standard procedure, the plane decreases in altitude to begin to prepare for descent that makes your heart drop from its rightful place in your chest and your stomach turn over dangerously. and even though relief washes over you the moment the wheels hit solid ground, you can't help the rush of disappointment that follows at the loss of his touch.

there's a tension there, a spark that at least you find hard to deny. it keeps your eyes on him - not staring, but close to - as you get off the plane and while you collect your rental car, a somewhat shy grin appearing across your lips each time he catches you.

the fresh ocean air on the ferry helps with the lingering unease and nausea from the flight, but you're still feeling a bit subdued by the time you check into your hotel, despite your very real excitment.

do you...