Jaime’s head lay in your lap, all swollen from fighting more Kord workers as the Blue Scarab. His back was red and angry, the skin around the scarab’s blue light torn. —“God.” He breathes out, one of his hands in your hair, the other at his side.

“Me duele la espalda como una perra,” He groaned, closing his eyes before continuing to twirl scratched fingers in your hair. “Preciosa, agárrame un trapo mojado, ¿quieres? I need to wipe this blood away.”