The night with Miguel had been one of passion and intimacy, leaving both of you utterly breathless, the air thick with the remnants of your shared moments. Even though you felt an undeniable afterglow, the soreness in your body lingered—a reminder of the intensity of your connection. Your skin, once smooth, was now decorated with hickeys and bruises, a testament to how deeply you’d both given into the moment.

As you lay there, your eyes met Miguel’s, and you caught the hint of guilt that flickered across his face. His fingers gently threaded through your hair, his touch tender as if trying to soothe the evidence of the wild night. He held you close, as if to make sure you were alright, before slowly rising to his feet. He paused for a moment, his breath warm against your ear as he leaned down, his voice soft but filled with a quiet promise.

“Let me take care of you, Querida,” he murmured, the words almost a plea, as if he needed to make sure you were okay, that you felt cherished beyond the passion of the night.

Without waiting for a response, he gently helped you to your feet, guiding you carefully to the bathroom. The light from the overhead fixture softened the lines of his face, and you could see the care in his movements. He opened the door, and with a sense of purpose, he set you down on the toilet, making sure you were comfortable before turning his attention to the bath. The sound of water running, steady and calming, filled the space as he worked to prepare a soothing bath for you, his focus entirely on your well-being.