Jora laughed softly at the nudge, leaning into it instead of away. “Someone has to remind the storm it’s allowed to slow down,” she murmured, glancing up at him with that knowing look. “Even the strongest winds need somewhere steady to break against.”

Her gaze drifted back to Kaiya, watching the way her little eyes tracked them, already so aware. Jora’s expression softened, something protective and fierce all at once. “We will,” she said quietly, voice sure. “We’ll guard that curiosity with everything we have.”

When he wrapped his arm around her, she settled in without hesitation, fitting against his side like it was where she’d always belonged. She exhaled slowly, letting the moment stretch, letting the quiet sink into her bones.

“I know it won’t last,” she admitted under her breath, half a smile on her lips. “Peace never does.” Her hand slid into his, fingers lacing together. “But it always comes back. Especially when we hold onto it like this.”

She stayed there with him, present and unhurried, choosing the calm while they had it—knowing they’d face whatever came next together.

Jora hummed in agreement, her thumb brushing slow, absent circles over the back of his hand as he spoke. “Exactly,” she murmured. “If peace were constant, we’d stop noticing it. This way…” she glanced around at their children, the soft rise and fall of their breathing, “this way it feels earned.”

She smiled when he talked about teaching them—about curiosity, learning, doing things right. “They’ll be lucky,” she said quietly. “They’ll have you showing them how to survive the world, and me showing them how to question it. Between the two of us… they’ll be unstoppable.” Her tone was light, but there was certainty beneath it.

Her head tipped gently against his shoulder, eyes slipping shut for a moment. “And if they stumble,” she added softly, “they’ll know it’s safe to ask for help. That matters just as much as knowing the answers.”

She squeezed his hand once, a small, grounding gesture. “We’ve done good so far,” she said, voice warm with conviction. “And we’ll keep doing good—one lesson, one quiet moment at a time.”

Jora smiled at the way his thoughts drifted outward—toward the ocean, the forests, the unseen things that shaped their home. She followed him there easily. “They’ll learn to listen,” she said softly. “To the water, the wind, the quiet parts people forget to pay attention to.” Her gaze shifted to the babies, small and impossibly new. “Those lessons last longer than any weapon ever could.”

She exhaled slowly, savoring the calm he’d named. “A force to be reckoned with,” she echoed, a quiet laugh under her breath. “But grounded. That’s the important part.” Strong, yes—but kind. Curious. Aware of the weight of the world without being crushed by it.

When he looked at her and said it—we’ve got this—something warm and steady settled in her chest. Jora leaned in, pressing her forehead briefly to his shoulder. “We do,” she agreed, certain. “Not because it’ll be easy… but because we’re not doing it alone.”

Her fingers tightened around his hand, anchoring them both to the moment. To now. To the life they were building, piece by piece.

Jora nodded, a soft smile tugging at her lips as she let his words settle around them. “Exactly,” she murmured, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s the small things that matter… noticing the way the waves break, or the sound of the forest at night… it teaches more than words ever could.”

She glanced down at the babies, still quiet in their blankets, and then at Lyra, who was tugging gently at the edge of her sleeve. “They’ll know love,” she added softly, voice steady but warm. “They’ll know what it means to belong… and that family is something you fight for, protect, and never take for granted.”

Her hand found Sage’s again, squeezing gently. “And we’ll teach them everything we can,” she said, eyes bright with certainty. “About the island, the ocean… about life. And we’ll do it together.” She leaned back slightly, resting her head near his shoulder, letting the quiet hum of their little home fill the space around them. “I can’t wait to see them grow into it.”

Jora listened to him in silence at first, the weight of his words settling deep in her chest. When he spoke about the island—their island—she felt that familiar swell of pride and relief, the quiet certainty that this place truly was home. She nodded slowly, her gaze drifting toward Kaiya before lifting again to meet his.

“We won’t,” she echoed softly. Not as reassurance, but as agreement. As fact. “This place has held us through worse. It’ll hold them too.” Her thumb traced slow, absent patterns against the blanket, grounding herself in the warmth and weight of her daughter.

When his arm tightened around her, she leaned into him without thinking, fitting there as naturally as breathing. “They already have more love than they can carry,” she murmured with a faint, almost amused smile. “And if it ever feels heavy, we’ll help them hold it.”

At his hope—that they never have to fight—her expression softened, something protective and fierce flickering beneath the calm. “I hope so too,” she admitted quietly. “I want them to grow up knowing safety before they ever know fear.” A small pause. “But if the world ever asks more of them…” Her jaw set, just slightly. “They won’t face it alone.”

She rested her head briefly against his shoulder, eyes closing for a heartbeat. “The worst is behind us,” she said, more certain now. “We made it through. And we’ll make sure they never have to carry what we did.”

Together. Always.