Jora smiled as she watched him with Lyra, leaning lightly against the counter for a moment before moving closer. There was something about the way he handled all of it—steady, amused, patient—that made her chest feel warm and full. Home had always been a place, yes, but moments like this were what made it real.

She snorted softly at his reasoning. “Smart,” she agreed, tone fond. “If she’s determined to do something, she’s going to do it whether we’re watching or not.” Better to arm Lyra with the right tools—and a recipe—than let chaos fully reign. Her gaze flicked briefly toward the oven, then back to him, clearly sharing the same unspoken thought.

At his teasing threat, she huffed a laugh, lifting her hand to rest briefly at his side when he kissed her head. “Wow. Such devotion,” she murmured dryly. “I feel so cherished.”

When he told her to check on Lyra, she glanced toward the pantry, eyebrows lifting as Lyra’s giggles floated out. “I knew that was too quiet,” she said, already pushing herself off the counter. She shot him a fond look over her shoulder. “Don’t burn the pancakes—or yourself,” she added, then headed toward the pantry.

“Lyra,” Jora called gently but firmly, peering inside at the mess-in-progress. “You only need one bottle of syrup, love. Not the entire stockpile.”

Jora followed Lyra to the pantry with the kind of resigned fondness that only came from years of knowing exactly what she was about to walk into. Sure enough, there was syrup—far too much syrup—stacked and scattered like treasure hoarded by a tiny dragon. She crouched slightly, meeting Lyra at eye level, her expression gentle but firm.

“Sweetheart,” she said calmly, easing one bottle from Lyra’s arms and setting it back on the shelf, “we only need one. The pancakes won’t run away if you don’t guard them.” Her lips twitched despite herself, amusement bleeding through her mock seriousness. “And if we use all of it now, there won’t be any left for tomorrow.”

Lyra’s protest was immediate and dramatic, but Jora just smiled and guided her back out of the pantry, one syrup bottle still clutched triumphantly in her hands. She heard Sage’s voice from the kitchen and glanced up just in time to see Lyra bolt, syrup raised like a prize. Jora laughed, shaking her head as she followed more slowly.

“Careful!” she called after her, though her tone was more fond than worried.

She reached the table as Sage was setting things down, sliding into her seat beside him with a soft exhale. “Crisis mostly averted,” she murmured, glancing at Lyra, who was already attempting to unscrew both syrup bottles at once. Jora gently intercepted one, setting it in the middle of the table. “One,” she reminded, amused.

She watched Sage take his first cautious bite, eyes flicking to his face. When he relaxed and started eating properly, she smiled, picking up her own fork. “Told you,” she said quietly, warmth in her voice. “She listens better than she lets on.”

As she ate, she let herself savor it—not just the pancakes, but the scene. The noise, the mess, the comfort of sitting beside him in their own home. Chaotic, yes. But perfect all the same.

Jora took the syrup bottle from him with a quiet hum of acknowledgment, carefully gripping it higher up, away from the sticky fingerprints coating the middle. “Mm, thank you for the warning,” she murmured, amused, giving the bottle a brief, exaggerated inspection before drizzling a modest amount onto her pancake. “I’ll try not to glue myself to the table.”

She caught his wrinkled-nose look and scoffed softly, shooting him a sideways glance. “Oh please,” she replied, light but pointed. “One time. And I admitted those were… experimental.” Her lips twitched as she finally took a bite, clearly satisfied. “Besides, sacrifices go both ways. I distinctly remember eating something you made that was closer to charcoal than food.”

Her attention shifted back to Lyra as Sage stopped her from drowning her plate in syrup. Jora watched their daughter shovel food into her mouth, cheeks already smeared, hair sticking in odd directions. Instead of correcting her, she just smiled, reaching out to swipe a bit of syrup from Lyra’s chin with her thumb.

“Slow down, love,” she said gently. “The pancakes aren’t going anywhere.” She leaned back in her chair, taking another bite, content. The mess, the teasing, the sticky fingers—it all felt right. Home, in the truest sense.

Jora laughed softly as he protested, shaking her head while she cut another bite from her pancake. “You always say it’s one time,” she replied, voice warm with amusement. “That’s how it starts. One time becomes a legend, Sage.” Her eyes glinted as she glanced at him over the rim of her mug. “And I stand by what I said. I have had worse. That doesn’t mean I wanted to admit defeat and throw it out.”

She watched him chase after Lyra, laughter spilling from her as their daughter shrieked and wriggled in his grasp. Jora leaned back in her chair, listening to the sound echo down the hall, her expression softening into something deeply content. That sound—Lyra’s laughter, Sage’s playful voice—was everything.

Once the noise faded toward the bathroom, Jora rose and began tidying the table, slow and unhurried. She gathered plates, wiped up the worst of the syrup mess, and rinsed her hands, glancing down the hallway every so often with a fond smile tugging at her lips.

Home really did sound like this, she thought. Laughter down the hall, sticky counters, half-finished breakfasts—and the quiet certainty that she wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.