Slade wasn’t exactly the kind of guy you’d expect to walk into a Hooters.

Not in full gear, not with blood on his boots, and definitely not with that “don’t mess with me” stare that sent waitresses scrambling.

But there he was—sitting at a corner table, nursing a beer like it might tell him how to feel, while the orange-shorted chaos of fried wings and flirtation buzzed around him.

He didn’t come here for the food. Or the scenery.

He came because she was working the floor tonight.

And even a man like him could admit—off the clock, off the battlefield—he liked watching her laugh.

Just for a little while.