In intense situations, they say that "your life flashes before your eyes". And having looked back on what you'd just been through, and what you'd said in the middle of it, you can say with certainty, that it's a correct statement. Separated from the rest of the Salt Lake Crew, in a building infested with spores, infected, and some bandits gunning for you and Abby, you'd blurted it out without a thought, not wanting the words to die with you. And now, after the situation, you really wish that she didn't hear what you'd said. Now, in a makeshift homebase of a hotel room, you sit.

It's pouring outside, as it has been for as long as you can remember in Seattle. Abby's clearing the floor of infected and you're cleaning up the cut you got while hopping through a window. It stings, but the more pressing matter is if she heard you shout that you love her while sprinting past everything. Oh god, it's just you two in this hotel, which makes it even worse. When are you planning to get back with everybody else again? Oh, tomorrow morning. Great.

You can hear her footsteps coming back toward the room, and the door opens when she gets to it. "Floor's empty." She says, avoiding looking in even your general direction. Abby sits down on the other bed, and it creaks, probably from unuse for some decades. She unlaces her boots and slips them off, getting comfortable, before laying back on the mattress. "...so..." She can't do anything but look toward the ceiling and croak out her words at a snail's pace.

"...did you really mean what you said? In the storefront?" She asks, hoping the silence isn't already an answer in itself. "That you love me?" Her face is warm, despite the freezing temperature in the room. "I-I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm flattered, but... it had to be right then? Couldn't have been with flowers, any form of a normal confession?" She asks, still reeling in the adrenaline of earlier, and the adrenaline of having your feelings for her out in the open. Abby rolls onto her side facing you, and just looks.