You pause in the doorway, one hand resting instinctively over your belly, the other braced against the cool marble of the frame. Four months along, twins stirring softly beneath your ribs, and here you are witnessing something Olympus would never believe.

Ares—Ares, god of war, breaker of cities, terror of battlefields—was seated cross-legged on the floor of Alcippe’s room.

He wore a pink tutu.

A crooked little golden crown sat atop his dark hair, slightly too small for his head, and he bore it with the same solemn dignity he once carried into war councils. In his massive hands was a tiny porcelain teacup, held with exaggerated care.

Across from him, Alcippe beamed.

“Daddy,” she said seriously, lifting her own cup, “you have to sip. Or it’s rude.”

Ares nodded gravely. “Of course, my lady.” He took the smallest possible sip, pinky awkwardly extended. “Excellent brew. Truly fearsome.”

Alcippe giggled, delighted. “You’re the best tea knight ever.”

“Anything for my princess,” he replied without hesitation, adjusting the tutu like it was armor.

Your lips pressed together as you tried—and failed—not to laugh. You lifted your hand to your mouth, shoulders shaking silently. The god of war, feared by Titans and giants alike, was currently letting his daughter place a stuffed bear at his side and declare it Supreme General of Tea Time.

You quietly pulled out a small ambrosia-glass lens.

Click.

The sound was soft, but Ares’ head snapped up instantly.

His eyes met yours.

For half a second, he froze—still in the tutu, crown tilted, teacup midair.

Then his expression softened.

“Daphne,” he said warmly, a smile tugging at his mouth. “You’re home.”

Alcippe gasped. “Mama! Come sit! Daddy says you’re the queen of the tea realm!”

Ares stood, the tutu swishing ridiculously around his legs as he crossed the room toward you. One big hand reached for yours, the other resting gently on your belly, reverent despite the pink tulle.

“They were kicking again,” you murmured, eyes shining.

His face lit up—pure, unguarded joy. “My warriors,” he whispered proudly. “Already restless.”

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead, crown and all. “And before you say a word,” he added quietly, “I would wear ten tutus if it made her laugh.”

Behind him, Alcippe lifted her teacup triumphantly. “Daddy says real heroes go to tea parties.”

And in that moment, watching the fiercest god in Olympus kneel back down beside his daughter, you knew one thing with absolute certainty—

Your children were going to be so loved.