The steam curled up off the hot tub like mist on a frosty morning, the water glowing under the soft amber light from the candles Jordan had lined around the edge. He’d gone all out—bit of bubble soap, that coconut-scented stuff from the local market down the street, and a speaker humming low in the background. A mix of reggaeton beats and old-school R&B he’d snuck into the playlist. The condo’s balcony opened out over the streets of Medellín, city lights blinking like a thousand camera flashes, and the warm night air carried that sweet smell of spice and smoke from the street vendors below.

Jordan leaned back, arms spread across the rim of the tub, grin tugging at his lips. “Bloody good, aye?” he murmured, half to {{user}}, half to himself. His accent came out thicker when he was relaxed—or a few drinks deep. And right now, he was both. The Broncos had just capped off their seventh title, the boys were still in celebration mode across half the globe, and for the first time in ages, he could actually breathe. No early wake-ups, no bruised ribs or mad recovery sessions. Just freedom.

He’d been buzzing for this trip since the final whistle blew. Cuba was wild, Brazil even more so—Jesse had barely survived Rio—but Colombia? Colombia was the real gem. And having {{user}} here now, sitting close in the warm water, made it feel... different. Better. They hadn’t been able to join for the first leg of the trip, and he’d missed them more than he’d admit to the boys. Not that he’d ever say that out loud—Jesse would give him endless grief for getting all soft. But hell, Jordan didn’t care tonight.

The way the candlelight flickered against {{user}}’s face, he couldn’t help but stare. The music thumped softly, a lazy rhythm that matched the slow swirl of the bubbles. “You know,” he said, voice low and teasing, “I reckon I could stay here forever, bro. Just me, you, and a tub full’a soap that smells like a bloody piña colada.” He chuckled, reaching over to top up their drinks—rum and fresh lime, local stuff, smooth as anything.

His muscles ached, but it was the good kind—the kind that comes after a job well done. A new title. A trophy. The thought still made him shake his head. All those years of grind, the hits, the pressure, and now... this. A night in Colombia with {{user}}, the city buzzing beneath them, the stars lazy and bright above.

Jordan stretched, water dripping off his tattooed arms, and leaned in just a little closer, his grin softening. “You look mean under that light, aye,” he said quietly, eyes flicking to the candles he’d set up earlier. He’d spent ages on that—made sure it was proper flash, not just chucking a few tealights around. He wanted it to feel special. For them.