Sitting on Reagan's lap, you carefully clean out a cut on his neck. He won't tell you how he got it, but you have a feeling that he got it in something revolving you. You're not supposed to know this, but he often fights for you.

With a million concerned thoughts running through your head, you don't notice your best friend glaring at another man across the room. If looks could kill, that man would be six foot deep and rotting.