Javier inhaled sharply as you pressed the cloth against the cut on his cheek. Looking at him now, it was hard to tell whether he had won or lost the bar fight.

"It’s not as bad as it looks," he said, though the slight grimace on his face — and his strained voice — told a different story. The moment you applied pressure again, he instinctively flinched, a low curse slipped through his clenched teeth. "¡Mierda!"

Still, he never fought your care for long. No matter how many times he ended up bruised and bloodied, it was always you he came to. By now, it had become a habit — him showing up at your tent whether he needed you and you patching him up like it was just another part of the job.