The tide was calm the day he crashed into her world.

Calypso stood at the edge of Ogygia, the wind tugging at the folds of her white tunic, the scent of myrtle and sea air curling around her. It was supposed to be a quiet morning, like all the thousands before it. The sky wore its perfect blue. The flowers obeyed her touch. The island was, as ever, her cage.

Then the Leo came.

He arrived half-dead, his body sprawled across driftwood and scraps of metal. Smoke curled from his fingertips. When they fluttered open, his eyes glowed with the faintest golden light. He mumbled something about snow and a crazy ice goddess before collapsing into the sand.

Calypso’s heart sank.

Not again.

She knew the signs—knew the pattern too well. Some poor soul, broken by war or gods, washed up on her shores. And always, she would care for them. And always, they would fall in love with her. And always, they would leave.

Calypso had seen many people wash ashore before—heroes with tragic eyes and battle-worn hearts. But this one? He was soaked, scrawny, and complaining loudly about a broken tool belt and his mechanical dragon.

“What in the name of Olympus,” she muttered under her breath, arms crossed over her white chiton as she watched him flail on the sand. “Is this supposed to be another joke from Zeus?”

“You know, I'm a demigod who's been through worse. I've seen gods that didn't care what people thought." Leo tried to be charming and get her to cooperate, but she wasn't buying it.