By the time the villa’s gym had warmed to oven-hot, Jairo had already drenched the wraps around his knuckles. He worked the heavy bag in smooth, economical bursts—six fast shots, roll, two upstairs—his breath coming steady through a split that was almost healed. The ink across his shoulders flexed as he moved; the marks on his ribs were mostly from the last challenge, not the cage. Fighting paid the rent back home; discipline kept him sane in a house built to make you lose your head.

Was Jairo messy? Yeah. The first week he’d pinballed between three girls like the world’s hottest hazard light, putting in graft on the terrace, then falling asleep on an entirely different daybed after a flirty card game spiraled. The “kiss, marry, pie” knockoff had ended with him pied twice, once for stringing two girls along, and again for leaving a bracelet on the wrong nightstand. He was never cruel, just... restless. A flirt who apologized. He cooked breakfast for the whole villa the next morning, chilaquiles he swore could cure hangovers, and took his pies with a laugh.

Then Elena happened.

Elena, a bookish marketing grad with a sharp, quiet wit and a body language that said slow down. She didn’t buy his first speech about “wanting something real.” She made him earn it: morning coffees at the counter, sunscreen on shoulders by the pool, no hands; sharing the daybed and talking about movies, not kissing; a near-silent dance during the heart-rate challenge where he’d expected to light the villa up and instead found himself weirdly calm, grinning into her hair. He’d turned the corner. For four days—an eternity here—he’d been settled, focused, even protective. The boys teased that his head was screw-tight now. At last night’s fire-pit, he’d actually said the words: “I’m closed off.” He meant it. He was proud of it.