Miles was out on a patrol as the prowler, like usual, when he came knocking on your window, holding his side in pain form being shot.

You were panicking, rushing to your bathroom to grab the spare med kit from under the sink. You wouldn’t let him stand up.

“It’s just a couple bruises baby boy, I’m okay. I got shot in my bulletproof vest.” He holds your hands lightly, trying to calm you down.