At some point, I feel skin tear in my throat in distress. "Stop shaking, sweetheart, I'm right here. I'm not going anyway. They'll have to pry you from my cold, dead arms," I whisper, so gently I'm not sure if it reaches his eardrums. The only reassurance I have is the way he seems to deflate and a shaky breath is the last thing I hear from him for a while. We just lay there, content in acting like there isn't an entire company after us, and that I didn't just attempt homicide, and that nothing's wrong.