Slade wasn’t made for softness.

His world was sharp edges, tight triggers, and the cold comfort of routine violence. Sensitivity didn’t survive long in his line of work—except for her.

She flinched at thunder, cried during war documentaries, and apologized to plants when she watered them late. The kind of woman who wore her heart like a bruise—tender, visible, and begging not to be pressed.

And yet, she loved him.

Not despite the blood on his hands, but with the quiet hope that someday, it might wash off.

He didn’t deserve her. He knew that.

But that didn’t stop him from holding her gently, shielding her from the dark, and promising—without words—that he’d burn the world to protect what little softness he had left.

Because in the end, even a man like Slade needs something to save.