Jora let out a sharp breath of laughter at his response, shaking her head as she stirred the pot again. “You’re lucky I like you,” she muttered, lips twitching into a smirk. “If I didn’t, I’d slap you with the ladle every time you opened your mouth.” She shot him a sideways glance. “And if you're focused on my ass, you’re doing a poor job of hiding it. You stare like I’m the sun and you’re trying to go blind on purpose.”

She kept her tone light, teasing, but the fondness was unmistakable in the way she spoke to him—equal parts snark and softness. A perfect balance they’d somehow fallen into with ease.

As he spoke more seriously, her gaze softened, the hand on the wooden spoon slowing its motion. She turned to face him properly, leaning her hip against the counter, one brow quirked.

“Stuff always needs to get done,” she said simply. “It’s never gonna stop. Doesn’t mean you gotta run yourself into the ground to keep up with it.” She crossed her arms lightly, her voice gentling. “You’ve got nothing to prove, Sage. Not to me, not to Lyra, not to Selene. You already did the work. You earned here.”

She paused, her lips twitching again at the mention of Jace. “If he gets here and there’s no dock,” she said slowly, “he’ll find a way to crash into the shore like a dramatic idiot and make a speech in the rubble. It’ll be fine.” A beat. “Besides... if you’re worried, you could just marry me right here. I’d still say yes. Even if we’re covered in sawdust and stew.”

Jora let out a short laugh, shooting him a mock glare over her shoulder. “You want warmth? Come near this stove and see how fast I make you regret that comment,” she quipped, but her smirk was soft, amused, and just a touch fond. “You're lucky I’m too busy feeding your ungrateful ass to chase you around the kitchen right now.”

Still, she couldn’t help the quiet flutter in her chest that came with him wanting her so openly. Even in jest. There’d been a time when that kind of affection from him had felt impossible, like something she’d dreamed about and shoved aside because it hurt too much. Now it was real. Now he was here—smirking, blushing, teasing, and hers. It still caught her off guard sometimes.

She stirred the stew again before turning to glance at him fully, arms resting on the edge of the counter. “You think too much about what has to be done,” she said more gently. “Sometimes it’s okay to just… be here. With me. With all this.” She motioned vaguely toward the small house they were slowly turning into a home.

At his last comment, her lips twitched. “We don’t need legal,” she murmured, eyes narrowing in that way they did when she was being sincere but stubborn about it. “We’ve been through more than most people who wear rings. We got the kind of commitment you don’t need paper to prove.”

She let that linger for a beat before arching a brow, a smirk playing on her lips again. “But fine. We’ll wait for Jace to come crash a perfectly good dock and cry about how pretty we look. Just know I’d still marry you tomorrow. Covered in sawdust. In stew. In a swamp, probably.” A pause. “Not in a church, though. I’ll kill someone if you try and make me wear heels.”

Jora rolled her eyes fondly as he wandered closer, barely holding back a grin. “It’s stew, not molten lava,” she muttered, even though the comment about being burned to death had made her snort. Only Sage could make the concept of immolation sound casual. Endearing, even.

When he brought up the floor again, she shot him a sidelong glance, her smirk matching his. “Alright, fine, we were still being productive, technically,” she conceded. “But I meant without a hammer in your hand or a project halfway done. I know you—if you’re not building or fixing or planning, you feel like you’re failing. But you’re not. You’re here. And that’s enough for me.”

Her voice dipped at the end, quiet and sincere in the way she rarely let herself be. Just a flicker of vulnerability before she tucked it away again and stirred the pot.

But then his hands were on hers, and her breath hitched the way it always did when he looked at her like that—like she was the only thing in the world that mattered. Her gaze flicked up to meet his, and for a moment, there was nothing but the two of them and the bubbling stew behind her.

The words he said shouldn’t have hit her as hard as they did. She knew she was his. Knew he was hers. But still, hearing him say it like that, so firm and open and desperate in the way that only Sage ever was... her heart gave a traitorous flutter.

“Dramatic sap,” she muttered under her breath, cheeks flushed faintly pink as she looked away, though she didn’t let go of his hands. “You’re already mine. But fine. We’ll make it legal. I’ll even sign the paper.” She tilted her head slightly, teasing now. “Don’t expect flowers though. I’m not carrying a bouquet unless it’s edible.”

She did laugh, full and warm, when he started listing off all the traditional wedding things she’d never wear. “God, can you imagine me in white? I’d look like someone shoved a wolf into a doily.” She shook her head, amusement still dancing on her lips. “I’ll say ‘I do’ and then threaten to murder anyone who says it wasn’t romantic.”

Jora let out a low snort, amused despite herself as she shook her head. “You just want to build something and then climb it,” she muttered, though her voice was warm, not mocking. “You get antsy when things are still, that’s all.” And she’d gotten used to that—the way he always needed a project, something to work on, something to fix. She didn't mind it. Hell, she liked watching him work. It gave him peace, gave him purpose. Gave her a chance to admire him when he wasn’t looking.

The flush on his face didn’t go unnoticed either, and a small, knowing smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She’d never stop saying it—that he was enough. That she loved him. If it never stopped hitting him like that, then maybe he’d actually start believing it fully one day.

The rest of his teasing earned him a well-aimed nudge to the ribs with her elbow as she stirred the stew. “Please, if I wore a wedding dress, you'd spend the entire ceremony fidgeting just trying to get your hands under it.” She glanced at him, smirking. “But I guess if you play your cards right, I could find something easy enough to slip off. Still not gonna be white though. Don’t wanna scare the wildlife.”

His next question hit differently though. She went quiet for a moment, her hands stilling on the spoon as she stared into the pot like the swirling broth might offer some clarity.

“My father didn’t make it,” she said softly, after a breath. “The water took him before we ever made it to shore.” Her jaw tightened briefly, but she didn’t let it linger. There was grief there, of course—but it was old and worn down at the edges, something she'd already made peace with.

“As for my mother… I dunno.” She glanced at him, brow furrowed slightly. “She’d come. She’d probably cry and bring an entire roast with her and scold you for not brushing your hair before the ceremony.” Her voice softened a little. “But she would be happy for us.”

Jora looked back at the stew, gave it a slow stir. “You think Jace can get word out to her?” she asked, quieter this time. “If he can… yeah. I’d like her to be here.” Her gaze lifted again, meeting Sage’s with something raw and honest in her eyes. “She should know I finally found home.”