Jora shot him a flat look, though it was absolutely ruined by the way her lips twitched upward, barely holding back a laugh. “And every time you do, I consider removing one of those hands,” she drawled, voice sharp with that familiar bite of humor that she always aimed squarely at him. “Don’t push your luck, sailor.”

Still, she let him wiggle those fingers like some smug little bastard, and let him link arms with her again like nothing had happened. Because really? Nothing had. This was them. Her threats, his teasing. The world could burn and they’d probably still be doing this, trading barbs like knives in the sand.

At his comment about the rent being her wedding ring, she snorted outright, a short, amused burst of air that said really? without needing the words. “Right, so your rent is… what? Me?” she asked, cocking her head and giving him a once-over. “I’m not cheap, you know. You wanna live this close to me, it’s gonna cost more than a half-assed flirt.”

But there was warmth behind it all, steady and unwavering. She didn’t pull away. If anything, she leaned into his side a little more, brushing her shoulder against his. Their days had been quiet lately—peaceful. Domestic, even. It was strange, but good. Healing, in its own quiet way.

When he whined about splinters, she rolled her eyes and stopped walking long enough to poke him in the chest with one finger. “Toughen up, sweetheart. Or what, you gonna sit there and cry while I do it myself?” Her tone was teasing, but her eyes flickered with something softer underneath. They both knew he’d help, even if he grumbled the whole time. That was just who he was now.

With a smirk tugging at her lips, she turned and started toward the house again, glancing back at him just enough to say over her shoulder, “C’mon then, barnacle. Floorboard’s not gonna fix itself—and I’m not hauling your ass if you get another splinter in that delicate little hand of yours.”

Jora rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t get stuck in the back of her skull. “Flatter yourself harder, why don’t you,” she muttered, though the faint color warming her cheeks betrayed how close to the mark his comment had landed. She didn’t dignify it further—mostly because he wasn’t wrong, and admitting that out loud would just give him more ammunition than she was willing to hand over.

When he pouted at her about the splinters, she let out an exaggerated sigh and muttered, “What a delicate little thing you are. Should I kiss your hand and make it better too, or would that just ruin the moment?” Her tone was dry as dust, but there was a spark of amusement behind it, her gaze flicking sideways to catch his playful expression.

Once they were inside, she moved without much fanfare, rolling her sleeves up and grabbing her tools with the ease of someone who had done this a dozen times before. She didn’t need to talk. Not right now. The silence between them wasn’t awkward or strained—it was comfortable. Easy. There was something about just doing something together that settled her in ways she hadn’t quite expected when she first invited him back into her life.

She caught him glancing at her a couple of times, of course. She always did. Sage wasn’t exactly subtle when he was admiring something, and she’d long since accepted that he looked at her like that. Like she was the only thing he’d ever wanted to see again. It made her chest feel tight in a way that had nothing to do with anger or frustration for once.

Without looking up from where she was hammering a loose board back into place, she spoke—voice calm and low, not even breaking rhythm. “You keep staring at me like that, I’m gonna assume you’re thinking about kissing me more than you're thinking about fixing this damn floor.”

A beat.

“...Or maybe you just like watching me work. Should I pose dramatically with a hammer or something?”

Jora didn’t look up right away—just scoffed under her breath, lips twitching despite herself as she drove the nail in with two precise hits. “Of course you wouldn’t argue,” she muttered, shaking her head a little. “You’d probably sprain something trying to get your hands in my pockets before I even put the hammer down.”

She did glance over at him after a second, catching that grin he wore like a badge of honor, and she rolled her eyes in a slow, exasperated motion that didn’t reach the small smirk threatening the corner of her mouth. “Both, huh?” she echoed dryly. “You better be able to multitask then, seaweed-for-brains, or we’re gonna be eating dinner off this crooked-ass floor for the next month.”

Still, she didn’t mind the warmth that lingered in her chest as she worked alongside him. It was... nice. The house had started to feel less like a project and more like a home, now that Sage was actually in it, shoulder to shoulder with her, instead of off chasing ghosts or trying to drown in a bottle. She’d let herself breathe a little easier since he came back—and seeing him laugh again, even if he was still healing, made her feel like they were on the right track.

She wiped her hands on her pants after setting the hammer down for a moment, glancing at him with one brow raised. “If you are gonna get distracted and forget about the floor,” she drawled, "just warn me first so I can go steal Lyra’s fish crackers and watch you suffer when you sit on a nail."

But she said it fondly. That was the worst part.

Jora snorted, elbow digging lightly into her knee as she leaned over the next board. “Yeah, and if you sprain that wrist, I’m not helping you with anything fun until it’s healed,” she shot back without missing a beat, flashing him a crooked grin that was a touch too smug for someone still holding a hammer. “Though maybe I should whack you over the head, see if I can knock some sense in there.”

She didn’t mean it, of course. If anything, her voice was warm—fond, teasing in that dry, sharp-edged way that always softened around him. She glanced over just in time to catch him eyeing her pockets again and gave him a look that said don’t even think about it. Not until the floor was finished, at least.

She scoffed when he bragged about multitasking, sitting back on her heels to wipe sweat from her brow with the back of her arm. “Captain of a ship, huh? Was that before or after you got distracted and steered into a storm like an idiot?” she asked, arching a brow, though there was no heat behind it. “You talk a big game, barnacle, but this floor’s still only halfway done.”

But when he said it was more slanted than crooked, she paused, turning to squint at him with a mock-scandalized expression. “You better take that back before I slant you across the floor,” she warned, jabbing the hammer in his direction for emphasis before laughing under her breath.

His last comment had her groaning dramatically. “Ugh, gross. Okay, fair point,” she admitted, nose wrinkling. “I’ll just watch you sit on the nail, then. I’m sure your pirate pride can take it.”

But her eyes lingered on him a moment longer—quietly, privately. She wasn’t gonna say it out loud, not yet, not in the middle of a half-finished room with sawdust in her socks and sweat on her neck, but... this? The banter, the work, the way they fell into step without even trying? This was what she’d missed. This was the piece of her life that hadn’t fit right when he was gone.

She tossed him a nail, casual, almost lazy. “Catch. And don’t drop it or I will tell Selene you broke the floor.”

Jora smirked faintly as she listened to him ramble, the corner of her mouth twitching like she was trying not to smile too much—but failing, just a little. “You’d probably melt into a puddle of shame and theatrics if Selene so much as looked at you wrong,” she shot back, voice dry, but her eyes softened when they flicked his way.

The hammer hovered mid-air for a beat as he mentioned using it on himself, and for a moment—just a moment—her expression faltered. She didn’t say anything right away, not exactly. But her gaze settled heavy on him, quiet and fierce and sure.

“I’m not knocking you out, Sage,” she said finally, voice low, firm. “If your brain starts lying to you again, I’ll do what I always do. Talk you down. Sit with you. Make you tea. Not swing a hammer at your head, jackass.”

She tapped the hammer once against the floor for emphasis, then set it down, a little more gently than usual.

It wasn’t a topic she liked—gods knew she hated even thinking about the days where he hadn’t been in his right mind—but ignoring it wouldn’t help. Pretending it hadn’t happened wouldn’t change what had. And it sure as hell wouldn’t keep it from happening again. What would help... was this. The reminder. That she was still here. That he wasn’t alone in that head of his, no matter how dark it got.

She reached for another board, aligning it as she exhaled through her nose. “Besides,” she added, lighter now, almost wry, “I like your stupid brain. Even if it is storm-prone and full of sea nymph delusions. I’m not risking knocking anything else loose.”

And this time, when she smiled, it was full. Open. Steady.