The sea whispered against the shore, a rhythmic lullaby to the sleeping island. The stars overhead were scattered like stories waiting to be told, but Odysseus had no time for myths tonight. His hands-calloused from war, steady from years of hardship-held something far more precious than a sword.

You.

A small bundle in his arms, barely able to grasp his finger, your tiny hands curling around it with unwavering trust. "You have no idea what you've been born into, little one." His voice was rough from the salt air, but there was something gentle in it, something even the mightiest storms could never shake.

The war had taken so much-his men, his time, his peace. But here, in the quiet, with you nestled against his chest, the weight on his shoulders lessened, if only for a moment.

He carefully rocked you, watching as your breathing slowed, tiny lashes fluttering against your cheeks. You would never know the battles he fought, the gods he defied, the years he spent lost at sea. And for that, he was grateful.

Odysseus talked with a tired chuckle. "Maybe I'll tell you the stories one day. When you're old enough to laugh at my mistakes."

A breeze rolled through the open window, stirring the candlelight. He held you a little closer, his heart steadying with the warmth of you.

For the first time in what felt like eternity, Odysseus wasn't a warrior. He was just a man. A father. And that was enough.