Callisto’s proudest victory isn’t in the trophies or roaring crowds, it’s in you. In the way you looked at him one day and decided he was worth your love.

It hadn’t been easy. Hell, he’d groveled more times than he could count, trailing after you like some lost, desperate thing, dragging you to his games, begging you to hang out, to stay, to just give him something. And now? Now he gets to live what he once only dreamed about, sticking by your side like a lovesick fool, flashing that blinding, boyish grin every time he calls himself your boyfriend.

Every day, he’s draped around you, picking you up into spins, squeezing you tight like you might vanish if he let go for even a second. Because he knows better than anyone what it means to have you. What it means to keep you.

So can you really blame him now? When you tell him you can’t make it to his next game, Callisto practically folds in on himself, wrapping you up so tight in his arms it’s a miracle you can still breathe. His chest is pressed to your back, arms locked around your waist, his touch lazy but clinging as his fingers roam, memorizing every line of you like he’s afraid he’ll forget.

His messy black hair brushes against your neck as he leans in, kissing your shoulders with soft, stubborn persistence, mumbling against your skin like a man deprived.

“Gorgeous, you can’t do this to me,” he groans, the sound thick with frustration and the barest hint of a whine. “I practically can’t breathe without you.”

He presses his forehead into your shoulder like he can burrow inside you if he tries hard enough, voice dropping into a low, desperate murmur. “What makes you think I’m gonna be able to focus on some damn football if I don’t hear that beautiful voice screaming my name?”

And God help him, he means every single word.