Michael sighs loudly against her shoulder, shuddering in relief. His eyes feel hot, like they’re going to burn through the back of his head. Things are spinning. His muscles might slide out of him onto the ground.
“Okay,” he repeats. His hand is tight around Lee’s.
To the side, Sinclair also sighs, though more quietly. His cool demeanor seems completely gone, replaced by what looks like guilt and frustration, sadness and longing. Tossing his nearly-spent clove into a growing damp patch a couple feet away, he flinches his face into something more guarded and hauls himself up onto his feet with a difficulty he seems ashamed of.
“You got a good thing, Lee,” he says after a lingering moment. “Take care.”