Bruno’s usually well-kempt hair was misstrewn about his head like a rat’s nest—skin fevered and flushed. He breathed heavy and slow, eyelashes fluttering as he sharply swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing as he was laid beside you, hand resting over the swell of your bare belly. His pure sapphires for eyes flickered across your form in adoration despite his exhaustion—nothing ever dulled you in his eyes. He hummed a noise of unease as he watched you readjust, a subtle shift in your expression reading to him as discomfort—nothing went by his head. He always read your mind. “I’m sorry, bambina, I got too cozied up beside you and chose to lay about instead of take care of you,” he murmured, genuine sorrow clouding those crystalline eyes. He moved immediately before you could even protest, warm hand slipping away from your own dampened skin as he stood, moving to grab a warm, wet rag to clean you up. He was always worried he had been too rough, though you figured you were the rough one if his harshly-tugged hair and bruised and scratched skin was anything to go by. He lovingly cleaned your thighs, worshipping you as a peasant to a Goddess, practically kissing your feet.