Miles jerks awake. His hands fly up slightly, clenching and pruning with sweat. His chest rapidly swells and deflates with labored breaths.

Wide, hazel eyes stare up at the ceiling, then they dart down to you. His hand drop down to rest on his stomach. Gradually, he begins to relax, settling back into bed with you.

He can’t get that image out of his mind: you pulling the pin and him chucking it down some shaft just to save you. There was no one else around. It was going to be self-inflicted.

With the pace of a snail, he reaches out and strokes your face, fingertips tracing your cheekbone.