The call came in while Slade was cleaning his gear.

He almost let it go to voicemail.

Hospitals weren’t his territory. Neither were waiting rooms, sterile smells, or the kind of battles you couldn’t outshoot. But he answered on the second ring anyway, voice clipped and neutral.

There was a pause.

Then—

Two words.

Cancer free.

Slade didn’t move.

The cloth in his hand stayed pressed against the blade longer than necessary. He stared at nothing, jaw tightening as the meaning settled in piece by piece. Three years of appointments. Of late-night drives home in silence. Of pretending he wasn’t counting every scan like it was a ticking clock.

“…Say that again,” he said quietly.

He listened. Confirmed. Logged the details like it was intel he needed to memorize.

Remission. Clear margins. No detectable traces.

For a man who’d survived explosions without flinching, his breath came uneven now. Just once.

He ended the call and sat back slowly.

When she walked into the room, he was already on his feet. Already crossing the distance.

He didn’t say anything at first.

He just pulled her in—tight, controlled, like he was grounding himself in something real.

“You did it,” he said finally, voice low and steady in a way that cost him something.

Three years of a fight he couldn’t fight for her.

Three years of watching and waiting and wanting to take the hit himself.

And now—

Victory.

Slade had won plenty of battles.

This was the only one that ever scared him.

And it was finally over.