Slade didn’t buy gifts impulsively.

He researched. He tracked down discontinued brands, original manufacturers, vintage listings that hadn’t been updated in years. He followed paper trails the way he followed targets—patient, thorough, inevitable.

Because his mother mentioned it once.

Offhand. Casual. The way people talked about things they’d already accepted they’d never have. A bicycle she’d wanted when she was a girl. A dress she’d seen in a shop window and never owned. Small things, really. Small to the world. Not to him.

So he bought them.

Not all at once. That would’ve raised questions. He staggered them, delivered them gently, like they’d simply found their way to her. A box on the porch. A quiet trip into town. A suggestion to “try this one” when they passed a store.

She laughed more than she questioned.

Slade watched carefully each time—her surprise, the way her hands lingered, the way she softened when she realized it was really hers. No strings. No obligations. Just something she’d wanted, finally within reach.

He never explained why.

He just stood there, arms crossed, pretending it was nothing while mentally checking off a list that had existed far longer than any contract he’d ever signed.

He couldn’t give her back her childhood. Couldn’t erase the years she’d gone without so he could have more.

But he could do this.

He could make sure the things she’d once put back on shelves—quietly, without complaint—were hers now.

And for a man who’d taken more than he could ever repay, that felt like balance.