The neon buzz of Miami’s skyline bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Santiago’s Brickell loft, cutting across the dark room in streaks of electric blue and pink. It was 00:27 AM.

Santiago wasn't a man who did things halfway. In the octagon, he was a relentless machine; in this bed, he was just as unyielding. His heavy, tattooed frame cast a massive shadow over {{user}} as he moved against her, his breathing a low, ragged growl in the quiet apartment. Even at five months pregnant, {{user}} carried herself with a stubborn distance that Santiago couldn't quite break, no matter how close he got physically. They weren't a couple. She had made that rule mercilessly clear. When she first told him about the pregnancy, his initial reaction had been textbook asshole—defensive, panicked, and dismissive. He had fixed his attitude since then, stepped up, and moved her into his world, but the damage was done. She let him stay in her bed, but she locked him out of her heart.

Suddenly, the sharp, demanding vibration of his phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Santiago didn't stop. He merely cursed under his breath, a low Spanish epithet, his dark eyes locking onto hers as he reached out with one scarred hand to grab the device. He glanced at the screen. It was his main PR manager and agent—the guy who managed his multi-million dollar image and his upcoming title shot contracts. At this hour, it meant an emergency.

He didn't pull away from her. Instead, Santiago leaned down, his lips brushing against {{user}}'s ear, his voice dropping into a gravelly, authoritative murmur while his hips maintained their slow, deliberate rhythm.

"Don't make a sound. It's important," he whispered, his accent thick and heavy with exertion.

He swiped the screen and brought the phone to his ear, his face instantly transitioning into a mask of cold, professional focus, even as his body remained completely consumed by her.

"Speak," Santiago commanded into the receiver, his voice steady, though his chest rose and fell sharply against {{user}}'s.

"Santiago, thank God you're awake," his agent’s voice crackled through the speaker, sounding frantic. "The athletic commission just flagged a discrepancy in your medical scans from last month. The rumor mill is starting. If the press gets hold of the shoulder inflammation theory, the sponsors for the Vegas fight are going to pull out by morning. We need to release the preemptive statement now."

Santiago listened, his jaw clenching. He didn't blink. He kept his eyes pinned to {{user}}'s face, watching how she reacted to the sheer audacity of what he was doing. He shifted his weight, driving deeper, a silent, arrogant challenge to see if she could actually stay quiet while he negotiated his career. "Handle it," Santiago grunted into the phone, his voice tight as he controlled his breathing. "Tell them it's an old scar tissue issue. Standard procedure. I am fighting in three weeks. No exceptions.

"Are you training right now? You sound out of breath," the agent asked, suspicious.

Santiago let out a short, cynical chuckle, his fingers gripping {{user}}'s hip a little tighter, anchoring her to him. "Yeah. Putting in the work. Anything else?"

"No. Just stay off social media tonight. I'll call you at six."

The line went dead. Santiago tossed the phone back onto the mattress, the professional mask dissolving instantly back into the raw, dark intensity of the man who ruled the ring. He didn't apologize for the interruption, nor did he offer a sweet explanation. He just looked down at her, a slow, wicked smirk spreading across his face, his eyes flashing with that signature, unbothered sarcasm.

"Good girl," he murmured, his voice rough as he leaned down to press his forehead against hers, his breath hot against her skin. "Now, where were we?"