He hates her for getting to him in the first place, but he hates himself more for acting on it.
Miles hasn't gotten out of bed since making a beeline for his apartment, right after he escaped the mess he made. He lays on his side, still damp from the rain, staring across the very empty other half of the mattress and replaying everything over and over on a loop that he doesn't know how to stop.
There's no question that he could have—should have—stopped himself from kissing her. That much is a given. He just wishes he had somebody or something to blame besides himself. It wasn't the storm's fault, and it's not like he could pile the blame on the candles flickering around them in that room (though they didn't help, highlighting how fucking beautiful she was to him, making her damn near irresistible).
And on that train of thought: she wasn't responsible, either. Ana Lucia didn't start this, didn't ask for it. He was the one who couldn't take it anymore and leaned in until his lips were finally against hers...
His face scrunches up and he groans, trying for the millionth time to push that thought away. He won't allow himself to think about her like this anymore, to torture himself with the idiotic notion that he could have her and she would want him right back. It's bad enough that he'd spent the past few months trying to ignore whatever the Hell this was between them, and now he has to go and retrain his mind not to think of her.
Forget what happened, Miles, he tells himself, because it won't happen again. Once is gonna have to be enough.
Besides, she's with him; has been for about a year. There's no way Ana would so much as consider giving up her perfect little life with her perfect little boyfriend in their perfect little fucking house for a screw-up like him. Hell, he'd probably end up pushing her away, just like he did to all the other women in his life. So it's not like it would matter in the long run, anyway.
His hands rub at his face as if trying to scrub her away, despite that being the last thing he wants to do. Though maybe, if he doesn't have any of her on him, it'll be easier to weed these stupid ideas from his overgrown garden of a mind. And then he wouldn't be thinking of going back out into the storm to find her and hold her again, even if it's only one more time.
"God damn it!"
Huffing with frustration, he turns onto his back and glares up towards the ceiling. He knows there can't be "one more time"; it simply wouldn't be enough. It would never be enough. She's like a drug and he's already addicted to her, how she tastes and smells and feels. If he got another hit there wouldn't be any going back, he'd drown in the high she gave him.
Shit, she had pushed him away and didn't stop him from bailing, all but said it was a mistake. Not that she needed to—he took note of the panic on her face, how horrified she looked at what she did. God, that hurts, despite it being hours later (two hours and sixteen minutes to be exact, but it's not as if he's been counting). He wonders how long it'll continue to sting.
But, a voice pries, she didn't stop you, not right away. Part of her wanted it just as badly as you did.
True, she wrapped her arms around him, moaned into their kisses and rocked her hips against his. There was even a fleeting moment where he swore he could have fucked her right there, right on the floor, and she would have gone along with it.
But that's over, anything remotely close to that is over. He dejectedly toys with the idea of avoiding her altogether, though he strongly doubts he'll be able to stay away from her for very long. It would be too hard to not look her in the eyes, and he wouldn't dream of missing even a note of that thick, husky (and absolutely sexy) laugh of hers filling the station as it spills over her lips. Those full, impossibly soft lips...
Thoughts like this are what got Miles in trouble to begin with.
He turns back onto his side, once again taking in the untouched half of the bed and wishing for the first time in years that he had someone laying there with him.