He also changed in the smallest domestic ways.
When we walked through the gardens with Daphne, he refused to let me carry anything heavier than her.
If I bent to lift a picnic basket, his hand would gently intercept mine.
“Let me, love,” he would murmur.
Then he would kiss my temple like the gesture itself was sacred.
Not possessive.
Protective.
He treated service toward me as privilege — not dominance.
It was strange.
Unsettling.
And slowly... comforting.
He learned to braid Daphne’s hair.
Every morning.
Sitting on the edge of her bed while she giggled and squirmed, impatient for breakfast.
His large fingers — once used to grip weapons — now carefully separated strands of her dark waves.
He hummed old Greek lullabies under his breath as he worked.
Soft.
Unconscious.
Natural.
Daphne loved it.
She would reach up and tug lightly at his eyepatch, fascinated.
“Papa, does it hurt?”
He would freeze for a second — then smile gently.
“Not anymore.”
She accepted that answer without questioning the history behind it.
Sometimes she traced the outline of the patch with careful fingers.
He allowed it.
He allowed her curiosity.
He allowed her proximity.
And in those moments, I saw the man he might have become if violence had never defined him.
