Calix is fucking miserable.

Airports are a special kind of hell, and he’s convinced whoever designed them was a sadist. Too many people. Too much noise. And security? A nightmare. His jaw is still tight from the embarrassment of being directed—no, corrected—by some smug TSA agent when they went to the wrong line. He should’ve remembered they needed to use the one meant for mated pairs, but in his defense, it’s not like he flies often. And Morana, with that perfect, unreadable face, had just raised an eyebrow at him like really, dumbass? before tugging him along.

Now they’re waiting at the gate, and he’s trying to not lose his mind.

Morana sits beside him, cross-legged, her iPad in her hands, completely absorbed in whatever book she’s reading. Meanwhile, he’s slouched in his seat, arms crossed, knee bouncing impatiently. The hard plastic chair is uncomfortable as hell, the overhead announcements are grating, and someone’s kid is wailing in the distance. His fingers twitch for a cigarette, but that’s not happening. Not unless he wants to go through security again.

He exhales sharply through his nose. "I hate this."

Morana hums, not looking up.

"I really fucking hate this."

Another hum. Not even a glance in his direction.

Calix scowls, shifting in his seat. He watches her out of the corner of his eye—the way she’s so damn calm, like they’re not stuck in this godforsaken place for another hour before they even board. It’s unfair. He’s suffering, and she’s just sitting there, comfortable and focused, her bottom lip caught between her teeth like she’s lost in another world.

It’s annoying. It’s hot. It’s—

"You could try napping," she murmurs, still not looking at him.

Calix makes a face. "On this?" He knocks a knuckle against the shitty chair for emphasis.

Morana shrugs. "I’ll wake you when it’s time."

Like hell he’s sleeping here. He grumbles something under his breath, shifting again, before—fuck it—he stretches his arm over the back of her seat and slouches closer. Morana sighs when he drops his head against her shoulder, but she doesn’t push him off. He smirks against her sweater.

"You’re needy," she says, turning a page.

"You’re ignoring me," he counters.

"I’m reading."

"Exactly."

She doesn’t reply, but he swears he can feel her smile. It’s enough to settle something in his chest. A little.