For a few treacly moments, Michael thinks she means the hotel, and he can’t understand. It hits him though, eventually. He slides down, head coming to rest against her stomach, arm curled around her side. The up-and-down movement of her breathing is one of the things he’s been craving the most.
“I don’t think it gets better than this,” he says, sad and angry and hoarse. “What if it doesn't get better than this? What happens? Are we all just gonna fucking kill each other?!”
None of the strangers in the room have an answer. The feeling of powerlessness is suffocating.