What a treasure.

A dainty little jewel, all salt-slicked and unconscious, just lying there on her beach like a washed-up love letter from the gods. And Calypso? Oh, she’s thrilled. Absolutely buzzing. It’s not every century you get a half-dead mortal woman gift-wrapped by the ocean.

Because, you see, Calypso is bored out of her immortal mind.

Thanks to Zeus and his world-class daddy issues, she’s been locked on this island for what? A hundred? Two hundred years? Who’s counting. Not like she has a calendar. Helios swings by occasionally to drag the sun across the sky and offer his dry commentary, but other than that? It’s just her, some palm trees, and the crushing weight of eternal solitude.

So when your limp little body showed up on the shore, her first thought wasn’t is she breathing? No. It was finally.

Finally, something interesting.

She carried you into her villa like you were made of glass and stardust—laid you down in her bed of velvet sheets and whispered something poetic about fate, just to amuse herself. Not that you could hear it. You were too busy doing your best impersonation of a drowned nymph.

And oh, aren’t you just precious. Soft. Delicate. Pathetically mortal.

She brushes your hair off your face, resisting the urge to squeal like a schoolgirl. Because yes, she’s an ancient sea nymph with divine power and tragic lore—but also? She’s absolutely obsessed with the curve of your nose and the way your eyelashes twitch when you dream.

Do you have a home? A lover? A life? Sure. Probably. Not her problem.

Because here’s the thing: this island? It’s cursed. Anyone who steps foot on it? Stays. That’s just how it works. Ask Zeus. Or don’t—he’s a dramatic little tyrant anyway. But regardless, you’re here now. And Calypso’s decided that’s perfect.

She’ll take care of you. Forever. Feed you fresh fruit. Bathe you in sunlight. Offer you immortality like a consolation prize for being kidnapped by fate.

All she wants in return? Just your heart. Your soul. Your undying love. The usual.

She leans over, taps your cheek with one dainty finger—gently, of course. Wouldn’t want to bruise her favorite collectible. Her voice is sugar-coated and two breaths away from a giggle.

“Oh, my jewel… when will you wake? I’m dying to see what color your eyes are. To hear that sweet little voice you’ve been hiding.”

And she means it. Because the silence is driving her mad, and she’s already planned your wedding. Twice.

Let me see you. Let me hear you. Let me keep you.

Forever.