Jora tightened her hold on him the moment she felt the tremor in his voice, felt how his body stayed rigid even after the worst of the panic passed. She didn’t rush him. Didn’t push. She just stayed—solid, warm, real—one arm firm around his shoulders, the other cradling his head against her collarbone.

“The night is enough,” she said quietly, not dismissing his fear but meeting it head-on. Her voice was low, steady, the kind she used when the world felt like it was tilting. “It doesn’t have to solve everything. It just has to give us space.”

She shifted slightly so he could breathe easier, her thumb brushing slow, grounding circles against his arm. “You don’t need to fight her,” she continued, words chosen carefully. “Not tonight. Not like that. You don’t need to relive anything to protect us.”

Her jaw tightened—not with fear, but with resolve.

“She doesn’t get you anymore,” Jora said firmly. “She doesn’t get this life. Whatever she thinks she’s come to claim—she’s already too late.”

She leaned back just enough to look at him, one hand cupping his face, forcing his eyes to hers without pressure. “Listen to me,” she said softly but with unmistakable authority. “You survived her. You escaped her. And you built something better. That matters. That gives us power.”

Her hand slid down again, resting briefly over his heart, then lower—over her stomach—before returning to him. “They’re not taking you. They’re not taking Lyra. And they’re not touching this child.”

Outside, the sea murmured and the ship crept closer, but inside the cabin Jora’s presence was unyielding. Protective. Awake.

“We use the night to prepare,” she went on, calmer now, practical. "If she steps foot on this island…” Her eyes hardened, sharp as drawn steel. “…she’ll find this isn’t the same man she once controlled. And she’ll find she has to go through me.”

Jora pressed her forehead to his, breathing with him again, slower this time. “You’re not alone in this,” she murmured. “You never will be again.”

And she meant it—not as comfort, but as a promise.

Jora went very still when he said it.

Not stiff—focused.

Her arms tightened around him without hesitation, one hand firm between his shoulder blades, the other still laced with his, anchoring him to her. She didn’t recoil from the words. Didn’t flinch at the violence in them. She’d always known pieces of his past were bloody. What mattered was now—and the man shaking in her arms.

“I know,” she said quietly.

Not judgment. Not shock. Just truth.

She shifted so he was fully supported against her, his weight welcome, grounding. Her thumb moved in slow, steady circles against his skin, a rhythm meant to pull him back into his body. “I believe you,” she continued. “About all of it. And I believe you did what you had to do to survive.”

Her forehead rested against the side of his head, breath warm in his hair. “But survival doesn’t mean clean endings. It doesn’t mean the past always stays buried just because it should.” Her voice softened further. “If she lived, that’s not proof you failed. It’s proof that the world is cruel and unfinished.”

When he finally said he was scared—said it out loud—Jora felt something fierce and protective surge through her chest. She pulled back just enough to look at him, really look at him, eyes bright but steady.

“Hey,” she murmured, cupping his face so he couldn’t look away. “Being scared doesn’t make you weak. It makes you honest.” Her thumb brushed under his eye, gentle. “You were hurt. Deeply. Of course she terrifies you. Fear doesn’t erase your strength—it exists because of what you survived.”

She leaned in, pressing her forehead to his. “You don’t have to be a fighter right now,” she said firmly. “You don’t have to be anything except here. With me.”

Her hand guided his again to her stomach, holding it there with purpose. “This family exists because you lived. Because you got away. Because you chose something better.” Her voice dropped, fierce and unwavering. “No one gets to take that from you. Not her. Not your past.”

She pulled him back into her arms, holding him close, protective in a way that left no room for doubt. “You’re allowed to be scared,” Jora whispered. “Just don’t carry it alone. I’m right here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Jora let him pull her up, but she didn’t let go—not really. She stayed close as they moved, one hand firm at his lower back, the other briefly squeezing his fingers before she turned her attention to the kitchen again. Close enough that he could feel her there with every step. Close enough that if his knees buckled again, she’d catch him without a second thought.

“That’s good,” she said softly when he mentioned the meat, approval woven through the words. “Keeping moving helps.” Not a dismissal of what he’d felt—just a way forward. Practical. Steady. Them.

She took up a knife and salt without ceremony, movements efficient and familiar, but her awareness never left him. Every few seconds, her gaze flicked back to his face, to the set of his shoulders, the tension in his jaw. Watching. Measuring. Ready.

“We’ll work until we can’t anymore,” she continued, voice low so Lyra wouldn’t overhear from the other room. “Then we rest in shifts. No one’s facing the dark alone tonight.” A pause, then more firmly: “That includes you.”

As she laid out another strip of meat, she spoke again—quieter, meant just for him. “You don’t need to prove anything. Not to me. Not to them.” Her hand brushed his wrist, grounding, reassuring. “Preparation isn’t fear. It’s care.”

She glanced once more toward the window, where the ship’s silhouette had grown sharper against the night, then turned back to him, expression calm but unyielding.

“Whatever she thinks she’s coming for,” Jora said, steady as stone, “she’s walking into our home. And we protect what’s ours.”

She leaned in, pressing a brief, fierce kiss to his temple before returning to her work. “You’re not alone, Sage. Not now. Not ever.”

Jora didn’t stop what she was doing when he said it. She kept salting the meat, kept her hands steady and precise, but something in her posture shifted—subtle, unmistakable. A tightening. A line drawn.

She glanced at him only after he finished, eyes sharp but warm, the way they always were when she was both worried and proud.

“We’ll have enough,” she agreed quietly. “Two weeks buys us options. That’s all we need.” Her gaze flicked to his hands, to the care he took with each piece. “And we’ll stretch it if we have to. We always do.”

When he mentioned food priority, she didn’t argue—didn’t waste breath on pride. She simply nodded once. “I know,” she said. “And so will Lyra. We take care of the small ones first. That’s how this works.” A pause, then softer, but no less firm: “And you’re not disappearing on us either. You eat.”

Then his words about the ship—about her—settled into the space between them.

Jora set the knife down.

She stepped closer, slow and deliberate, until she was directly in front of him. One hand came up to his chest, right over his heart, feeling it thud hard beneath her palm.

“You’re not the same man you were then,” she said, low and steady. “And this isn’t the same fight.”

Her thumb brushed lightly against his shirt, grounding, claiming. “You didn’t mess up before. You survived.” Her eyes held his, unflinching. “But this time? You’re not running. You’re not alone. And you’re not protecting us by breaking yourself in half.”

She leaned in, forehead resting briefly against his, breath warm and calm against his skin.

“If she steps onto this island,” Jora continued, voice edged with something dangerous and unyielding, “she answers to both of us. On our terms.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him fully, a fierce, unwavering certainty in her gaze.

“And she doesn’t get to take anything from us. Not our home. Not our peace. And not you.”

Her hand lingered at his chest for a moment longer before she turned back to the work, reclaiming the rhythm of it—but she stayed close, shoulder brushing his as she moved.

Prepared.
Together.