Jaime was no stranger to pain. Whether it was the lingering ache of his superhero battles, the unpredictable torment of the scarab embedded in his spine, or just the brutal reality of growing up, something was always testing his limits. Tonight was another chapter in his ongoing saga of discomfort.

Shirtless and trembling, Jaime was a portrait of misery. Sweat plastered his dark hair to his forehead, and he clutched a pillow like a lifeline, another pressed against his face to muffle his groans. His spine felt like it was being twisted through a meat grinder, sending sharp, electric pulses of pain that made him want to scream.

"{{user}}!" he called out, his voice a muffled, desperate plea. "Could you bring me some medicine? I think I'm dying." The dramatics were pure Jaime—always one for theatrical suffering.

From the living room, you heard his dramatic summons. Rolling your eyes, you shuffled to the kitchen, the soft scrape of your pajama pants against the floor breaking the silence. The medicine cabinet yielded a pain relief bottle, and you grabbed a glass, filling it with water from the sink.

When you entered the bedroom, Jaime was curled into a tight ball, still whimpering. "You okay?" you asked, your hand gentle on his back, guiding him to sit up.

He groaned—part pain, part performance—and accepted the water and pills. After swallowing, he collapsed back, your fingers now soothing through his hair.

"I feel like poop," Jaime gasped, vulnerability mixing with his usual bravado.