Jora was already awake when she felt Sage move, not quite shifting, just tucking himself in tighter against her. The weight of him pressing into her chest made her smile, soft and slow. Her hand moved on instinct, brushing through his hair again, her touch lazy and rhythmic—like the waves lapping at the island’s shores just beyond their windows.

She didn’t say anything at first. She didn’t need to. His breath was warm against her skin, his body familiar and heavy in the best way. This was her favorite kind of morning: no rush, no alarms, no emergencies. Just them, wrapped in warmth, in the comfort of everything they’d built and fought for.

Her fingers slid down to trace the curve of his shoulder gently, still half tangled in the blankets. “Sleep good?” she murmured eventually, her voice still husky with sleep. She didn’t need the answer—not really. She could feel it in him, in the peace that had settled over his usually-tensed muscles. He hadn’t had a nightmare. Not last night. Not this time.

And that made her heart ache in the gentlest, happiest way.

“You were quiet,” she added softly, dipping her head a little to kiss the top of his head. “That’s rare.”

They had time. She wasn’t going anywhere. And for once, the world could wait.

Jora smiled softly at the way his voice came out—gravelly and warm, still laced with sleep. His words weren’t sharp or sarcastic or even properly formed yet, but they didn’t have to be. She understood him just fine. She always had.

“Mm. You did,” she murmured, brushing his hair gently back from his forehead as he shifted and stretched against her. She could feel the difference in him, even before he said it. The way his shoulders weren’t drawn up tight like they usually were, the way his breath moved slower, steadier. He’d finally gotten a night of peace.

And maybe that meant he really was healing.

Her fingers continued their quiet path down his back as she let the silence linger for a moment—one of those soft, weightless silences that only existed between people who didn’t need to fill it.

“I’ll take the good nights however we get them,” she said quietly, resting her chin against the top of his head. “You earned that rest, Sage. Every second of it.”

She kissed his hair again, holding him close and safe.

“And if I have to fight off bad dreams with my bare hands to keep giving you more nights like that…” she paused, a smile tugging at her lips, “well, I’ve fought worse.”

Jora let her fingers linger in Sage’s hair a moment longer, watching the way his face softened even in sleep. She could see the hint of a smile tugging at his lips, even now. Maybe it was the peaceful night. Maybe it was the love still lingering between them from the night before. Either way, it was enough to make her chest ache in the best way.

But then came the sound—light and fast, like wind before the rain. She didn’t even have time to move before the door flung open and Lyra charged in like a force of nature.

“Mama! Papa!”

Jora blinked once, twice, then exhaled a laugh as Lyra launched herself onto the bed with all the energy of a small, determined whirlwind. The covers rustled violently as the little girl wiggled and burrowed between them like she’d been doing it her whole life. Which, to be fair, she kind of had.

Jora adjusted without complaint, one arm lifting to guide Lyra in without letting her jostle Sage too much. “Good morning to you too,” she murmured, brow arching playfully. “What brings the storm in so early?”

Lyra’s answer came out in a breathless tumble of words: “The sun is up, Mama, and I’m hungry and I want sweet bread!”

“Oh?” Jora muttered, lips quirking in amusement as she glanced sidelong at Sage’s lounging form. She leaned down and nuzzled the top of Lyra’s head, brushing curls aside to kiss her temple. “You are a menace. A very cute menace.”

Lyra beamed, already tucking herself under the covers like she belonged in the middle, little hands fisting in the sheets. “Can we go get it now?” she asked with those wide, hopeful eyes.

Jora snorted, brushing her hand gently through her daughter’s messy hair. "Let’s go, little storm. You earned it, I suppose.”

She slipped carefully out of bed, "you coming love?" She asks him softly. Her eyes lingered on him for a second longer, soft and full of quiet love.

Then she turned back to Lyra, who was already halfway down the hall calling, “Race you to the kitchen!”

Jora shook her head and followed after her with a smirk. “I should’ve known I’d be outrun by a sugar-fueled hurricane.”

Jora padded quietly into the kitchen with Lyra’s little hand in hers, listening as the girl chattered on excitedly about the sweetbread Sage had definitely promised her the day before. Her eyes sparkled, curls bouncing with each skipping step, and Jora couldn’t help but smile despite herself.

Still, she had to be the one to introduce a little structure to this household. Sage was hopeless when it came to saying no to those eyes—she at least tried to hold some kind of ground.

“Alright, storm cloud,” she said as she guided Lyra up onto the counter stool, brushing some hair out of her daughter's face. “You can have your sweetbread—but only if you have some fruit with it too.”

Lyra’s face scrunched immediately in protest, lower lip sticking out.

Jora gave her a warning glance, but her tone stayed warm. “Don’t give me that look. You want to grow up strong, don’t you? If we’re going to be running on the beach later, you’ll need energy. Real energy.”

“But Mamaaa,” Lyra groaned dramatically, flopping over the counter like she’d been personally betrayed by breakfast. “Fruit’s boring.”

Jora leaned forward with a smirk. “Not when you get to pick the colors. You want the red strawberries or the gold ones? Maybe some purple grapes?” she asked, pretending to think about it, even though she already had a bowl of mixed fruit halfway prepped from yesterday. “You make the choice, little captain.”

That, of course, got her attention. Lyra perked up, narrowing her eyes in a serious sort of way. “The golden ones. And the purple grapes. No green ones.”

“Deal,” Jora said, reaching into the icebox to grab the fruit with one hand, slicing the sweetbread with the other. “You negotiate like your papa,” she muttered under her breath with a fond shake of her head.

By the time Sage appeared in the doorway, clean and quietly watching them from the frame, Lyra had both her sweetbread and her bright fruit bowl in front of her—grinning like she’d won a war. Jora leaned over the counter, lips quirking into a grin of her own.

“I held the line,” she said simply, tossing Sage a pointed glance. “Well. Mostly.”

Jora raised an eyebrow at Sage the moment he opened his mouth, a knowing smirk pulling at the corner of her lips. She plucked the clothes from the air without even looking at them, setting them neatly on the back of a chair as she leaned a hip against the counter, arms crossing.

“I said I wouldn’t stop them,” she corrected, voice rich with amusement. “That doesn’t mean I’m not going to negotiate. I’m not raising a pair of spoiled little tyrants who think sugar glue is a food group.” Her tone was firm, but her eyes twinkled as they landed on Lyra, who had fruit juice on her chin already. “Even if they’re cute enough to get away with murder.”

She reached forward with a napkin and wiped Lyra’s face gently, ignoring the squirm of protest. “You're not winning every battle, sweetling.”

Then her gaze flicked back to Sage, and she stepped closer to him, brushing her hand over the back of his shoulder fondly as she passed by to get herself a glass of water. “And you, sailor—don't think you’re off the hook either,” she called over her shoulder. “You’d feed her a mountain of sweetbread and then look surprised when she starts climbing the rafters like a gremlin.”

But even as she teased, the warmth in her chest never dimmed. Watching him settle in beside Lyra, speaking in that soft, coaxing way, made something deep inside her ache with affection. He was trying so hard—still learning, still healing—and yet he was already so good at this. Better than he knew.

She took a slow sip of her water before walking back over, leaning on the counter across from them both, watching as Lyra dramatically guarded her bowl from Sage’s peering eyes.

“She’s not going to let you steal any,” Jora murmured, resting her chin on her palm. “You’ve made a monster.”

Then, quieter, only for Sage: “A happy one.”