Jora watched him as he spoke, her heart clenching just a little when he mentioned Liz. He didn’t talk about her often—maybe didn’t let himself think about her too much—but when he did, there was always a quiet reverence in his voice. A soft ache.

She reached out, brushing her fingers along his cheek, gentle. “She’d be proud of you,” Jora said softly. “I know I am.” Her voice didn’t waver, not even a little. Because she meant it. Fully. Fiercely.

Her thumb lingered there before she pulled back slightly, resting her hand against his chest. “And yeah… I think Lyra would be a good big sister. Bossy, maybe, but soft. Gentle. She’s got a lot of you in her, whether she knows it yet or not.”

When he admitted what he’d expected of his own life, Jora’s expression dimmed for a moment. She didn’t interrupt. She just listened. Let him say it. Let it live out in the air, in their home, where it could be understood and softened by the truth they were living now.

“You’re not going to die alone,” she told him quietly, but with iron in her voice. “You’re going to live. With a wife. With a daughter. With people who care about you more than they know how to say. And when you do die, far, far from now, you’ll be remembered. By all of us.”

She leaned in, pressing a kiss just beneath his eye. “But I don’t plan on letting that happen for a long, long time.”

A smile curved her lips again, warmer now. Easier. Her hand slid back into his, fingers locking tight. “Soon is good. I want to give Lyra time, too. Let her feel secure. Let her know that she has our full hearts"

A silence followed that, soft and comfortable, and then she added with a light grin, “Besides. We’ve got plenty of time to make more bossy little girls or little boys if that’s the direction we’re going.”

Her eyes sparkled with mischief, but behind it was something else—deep, abiding love, and the certainty that no matter what came next, she would be there. With him. Always.