The scent of coffee lingers in the air, bitter and rich, curling between you like smoke. Sunlight spills through half-drawn blinds, painting the kitchen in streaks of gold, but the warmth does little to thaw the steel beneath your skin. Across the table, Slade Wilson sits with his fingers wrapped around a black mug, his single eye steady on you. Not soft. Never soft, despite his unyielding love and devotion he has for you. There is no illusion between you, no pretense of normalcy. Just two killers sharing a quiet morning before the hunt.

Your fingers curl around your own cup, the heat pressing into your palms, grounding you in the moment. It’s an old habit—taking these stolen breaths of peace before the world turns red. You know where he’s going tonight, just as he knows where you’ll be. Different continents, different targets, but the same bloodstained rhythm you’ve both lived by for years. You don’t have to ask if he’ll make it back. He doesn’t have to ask if you will.

He taps his fingers against the ceramic, a deliberate, methodical rhythm. You recognize the pattern. A countdown. A habit neither of you have ever broken. You match it without thinking, a silent answer, a reminder that no matter how far you go, the hunt will always lead you back to each other.

Slade takes another sip of coffee, his gaze unwavering. There’s something possessive in it, something dangerous. Not a promise, not quite. Just a fact: you are his as much as he is yours, bound by something far darker than love.

When he finally speaks, it’s short- simple. “What’s your mission?”

To anyone else, it’s a casual question. But you know better, you know your husband well. He’s anxious, wants to make sure you’ll be alright.

Outside, the world stirs in ignorant peace. Inside, two assassins drink their coffee and prepare for war.