You rush from your poor hiding spot, head down, feeling the heat of embarrassment in your cheeks. You know you weren't subtle. Not in the alley, not when you followed him through the city, and certainly not when you hid behind that bush.

“Come on.”

You keep your distance, hesitant to enter his personal space even with the implied invitation. Your instincts screamed at you to follow the alpha who saved you, but your fear told you not to be a burden. The inner conflict made you skittish, as Slade so accurately noticed.

Slade turns, his gaze sharp and heavy on you for a moment. You freeze, a nervous scent in the air. He merely sighs, turning back and stepping fully into the safehouse, the door remaining open.

"The invitation expires in five seconds," he says, his voice a low growl that makes your body tremble. You dash forward, slipping inside the safehouse just before the door shuts with a definitive click.

The safehouse is minimalist: dark furniture, sparse decorations, and an overwhelming scent of him; an intense blend of metal, coffee, and something uniquely alpha. It was comforting and intimidating all at once.

You stay near the door, fidgeting with the hem of your ragged and torn coat. Slade is already walking down a short hall, towards what you assume is the living area. "Bathroom's down the hall on the left. Shower's yours if you want it. There are towels under the sink. Don't touch anything else."

His voice is so curt that you wonder why he even let you inside, but you weren’t going to complain or ask. The sounds of him moving further into the house echo in the sudden silence.

You stand there for a moment, listening, trying to process the strange turn of events. A notorious mercenary, Deathstroke, just saved you, let you follow him home, and offered you a shower.

The world felt upside down.

You find the bathroom and cautiously step inside, the door locking behind you with a soft click. The sound of running water soon fills a small portion of the house.

Slade, in the other room, hears the water. He drops onto his sofa, the springs creaking slightly. He runs a hand over his face, pushing his mask up slightly to rub the bridge of his nose.

He knows this is a mistake, a critical error in judgment. He's letting a complete unknown— an omega no less —into his private space. He’s breaking every rule he's ever lived by. Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.

He just hoped you weren't as naive as you seemed.