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“Last one I got stuck in,” Liam continues, eyes on the opposite wall instead of Damon’s face, “was in Manchester. Tiny thing. Smelled like piss and old chips. This one’s practically luxury by comparison.”
Damon listens. He lets himself focus on the cadence of Liam’s voice, the familiar vowels, the steady rhythm, the lack of pressure. It gives his mind something to anchor to, something that isn’t the too-low ceiling or the sealed doors.
His breathing starts to slow just a fraction.
Or;
Damon and Liam get stuck together in a lift and Damon is claustrophobic.