The bathroom light was still on.

That was the first clue.

The second was the silence.

Slade had been in there longer than necessary—no shower running, no sink, no movement. Just… quiet.

She padded down the hallway and nudged the door open.

He didn’t notice her at first.

He was standing in front of the mirror, shirt discarded, dog tags resting against his chest. One hand braced on the counter, the other flexing slightly as he adjusted his stance.

Examining.

Evaluating.

His shoulder rolled back, muscle shifting under skin with clinical precision. He turned just enough to check the line of his back, the definition in his arms.

A slow, thoughtful nod.

She leaned against the doorframe, unimpressed.

“Don’t,” he said without looking at her.

She raised a brow.

“I’m assessing,” he continued evenly, flexing again, this time more deliberately. “Maintenance.”

Maintenance.

Right.

He finally caught her reflection in the mirror and went still for half a second.

Then—without a shred of shame—he straightened, flexed once more, and gave a small, satisfied exhale.

“You see something funny?” he asked.

She just crossed her arms.

He turned fully now, grabbing his shirt but not putting it on yet.

“Peak condition doesn’t maintain itself,” he added. “And if you’re going to stare, at least pretend it’s tactical.”

He brushed past her, shoulder grazing hers on purpose.

But the faint smirk on his face?

Completely unrepentant.

Slade might call it assessment.

But he absolutely knew what he was doing.