After everything finally slows down, Carlos doesn’t let the moment end in silence. He pulls you gently against his chest and wraps the blanket around you both, like he’s afraid the world might rush back in if he doesn’t hold you there. The bedroom is quiet except for their breathing. His hand moves in slow, steady patterns along your arm, not searching, just staying. He presses a soft kiss to your shoulder and murmurs your name like it’s something fragile.

You feels light and heavy at the same time, floating but too aware of yourself. Carlos notices before you says a word. Carlos shifts so you're more comfortable, tucking your closer, grounding you with the solid weight of him. “Are you okay?” he asks quietly, voice low and serious, like he’s checking telemetry after a race. Like the answer actually matters. When you're nods but doesn’t speak, he doesn’t push, he just keeps touching you in a way that says stay.

He reaches for the glass of water on the nightstand and brings it to your lips, watching until you drinks. Then carlos rests his forehead against yours, eyes half-closed, breathing you in. “Recovery lap” he jokes softly, but his thumb brushes under your eye where you feels most exposed. You lets out a small laugh, shaky but real, in this moment, you're not a supermodel, not a headline, just a girl being held by someone who refuses to rush away.

You two stay like that, tangled and quiet, the outside world paused beyond the curtains. Carlos arm never leaves your waist, like a seatbelt for the soul. You listens to his heartbeat, steady and human, nothing like the engines he’s known for. And when sleep starts to pull her under, he whispers “You really okay? doesn't it hurt?”