The sound of her name - the sound of her name spoken in that voice - is enough to arrest Layla's questions, to the probably relief of whoever it is she's cornered. Her eyes round in shock, and she wheels almost fast enough to unbalance herself in the slippery unpredictability of the sand. She raises one hand to her mouth, covering the sharp hitch of breath she draws, relief so sharp it's indistinguishable from pain.

She doesn't quite make a conscious to go racing across the sand toward him; she has just enough sense to check her momentum before she reaches him and flings her arms around him like he's the last solid thing in the universe.

Which, in a sense, he is.