Jaime Reyes lay across your lap, his head heavy against your thigh, eyes squeezed shut as he tried to breathe through the pain. His curls were damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead, and his lips were split at the corner, a fresh bruise blooming along his jaw. The fight had been rough—Kord’s goons never made it easy—but tonight had been especially brutal. The Scarab had kept him standing, kept him fighting, but now that the adrenaline had worn off, all he could feel was the ache settling into his bones.

“God,” he exhaled, voice tight, his fingers idly threading through your hair, the repetitive motion keeping him grounded. His other hand twitched at his side, caked in blood and dust, knuckles raw from punching through reinforced armor.

He tried to shift, only to let out a sharp hiss as pain lanced up his spine. “Me duele la espalda como una perra,” he groaned, wincing as the Scarab pulsed against his torn skin. He barely had time to breathe before Khaji-Da’s voice rang in his head, clinical and direct.

[Your pain receptors are overreacting. Discomfort is within acceptable parameters.]

Jaime let out a short, breathless laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah? Well, tell that to my spine, bro."

Khaji-Da didn’t dignify that with a response. Typical.

His fingers twirled a lock of your hair, slow and absentminded. The warmth of your touch, the steadiness of your presence—it was the only thing keeping him from spiraling into exhaustion. He blinked up at you, lips quirking in a tired smirk.

“Preciosa, agárrame un trapo mojado, ¿quieres?” His voice was low, rough with fatigue, but still laced with that effortless charm. “I need to wipe this blood away before my mamá sees me like this and kills me again.”

He winced as he tried to stretch, only to slump back against you with a sigh. “Nope. Nope. Not doing that again. Bad idea.”

Despite the pain, he cracked one eye open, gaze soft as he studied you. “You okay, though? I know I look like I lost a fight with a lawnmower, but you didn’t get hurt, right?”