The post dropped at midnight.
Just a grainy, black-and-white photo — Callum Hayes, shirtless, his back turned toward the camera, muscles drawn tight with the faint sheen of post-shower light. A faint scar cut across his shoulder blade, the curve of a tattoo — the snake — disappearing down his spine. But what caught everyone’s attention wasn’t the ink, or the fact that it was his first personal post in months.
It was her.
Her face wasn’t visible — just long, dark, wavy hair spilling over his chest, her pale hands splayed across his skin, nails painted a glossy black. She was tucked against him, face buried beneath his collarbone as if she belonged there.
And she did.
The caption read simply: “Mine.”
Within minutes, the comments were chaos. Reporters, fans, teammates — all clawing for hints. Who was she? A model? An actress? How long had this been going on?
But Callum didn’t care.
He was sitting on the couch when the post exploded, scrolling lazily through the comments while she moved through the kitchen, wearing his hoodie — oversized, drowning her frame — and the faintest trace of amusement on her face.
“You’re trending,” she murmured, voice soft, melodic. “Again.”
He hummed, head tilted back against the cushion. “Figures.”
She padded closer, arching a brow. “You realize you just broke the internet, right? Half your fans are trying to find out who I am, and the other half are crying about betrayal.”
Callum’s lips curved faintly — a ghost of a smirk. “Good. Maybe they’ll finally stop shipping me with my bloody teammate.”
She rolled her eyes, but there was warmth behind it. “You didn’t have to post it.”
“Didn’t have to,” he said, accent smooth, clipped. “Wanted to.”
He looked up then — hazel eyes sharp and unreadable, the kind of gaze that stripped a person bare without moving a muscle. “They don’t get to have you. The world doesn’t. They can look all they want, but they’ll never see you.”
Her breath hitched, quiet but noticeable. He noticed everything.
He reached out, fingers brushing her wrist, thumb tracing idle patterns against her skin — light, deliberate. “They can talk. Speculate. Doesn’t matter.”
“And if they find out who I am?” she asked.
His jaw flexed, a muscle ticking once. “Then I make sure they forget again.”
It was half a joke, half a promise — the kind of thing that should’ve sounded possessive, maybe even terrifying. But coming from him — the man who never let anyone close, who hadn’t been seen with a woman in years — it sounded like protection.
He leaned forward, catching her chin between his fingers, his voice lowering to that familiar, velvet-dry drawl. “You’re the only thing I don’t play games with, love.”
Her lips curved, just barely. “Even with all that sarcasm?”
He smiled, lazy and crooked. “Especially with that.”
The phone buzzed again — another notification flood, more noise from the outside world. He ignored it.
She laughed softly, moving to sit beside him, curling into his side. His arm went around her automatically, pulling her close. For a moment, he just sat there, his head resting against hers, a rare peace settling over him.
The world could speculate. The fans could scream. He’d protect this — her — at all costs.
“Six months,” she whispered. “Guess we made it past your record.”
Callum chuckled, low and quiet. “Don’t sound so bloody surprised.”
“You don’t do relationships.”
He tilted his head, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “Didn’t. Past tense.”
She smiled into his chest. “So what changed?”
His fingers tangled in her hair, pulling just enough to make her look up at him.
“You happened.”