Slade didn’t pay attention to things like nests.

He noticed tactical layouts. Entry points. Structural weaknesses. The weight distribution of a room and how quickly it could be cleared if things went wrong.

Blankets piled in the corner?

Irrelevant.

Or at least, that’s what he’d thought.

Until he moved them.

The safe house bedroom had been too cluttered—fabric layered over fabric, pillows dragged from other rooms, his own clothes mixed into the mess like they’d been claimed and repurposed without permission.

Inefficient.

Slade had cleared it in under five minutes.

Now the room was clean. Orderly. Functional.

Exactly how it was supposed to be.

He barely had time to step back and assess it before he felt the shift in the air behind him.

Slade went still.

Slowly, he turned his head.

His eye landed on her—and for a man who had faced down metahumans, soldiers, and assassins without flinching, there was a very brief moment where he reconsidered every decision he’d made in the last ten minutes.

“…Right,” he muttered.

His gaze flicked once toward the now-empty corner.

Then back to her.

“That was yours.”

Not a question.

A realization.

Slade exhaled slowly through his nose, already stepping forward, hands lifting slightly in a rare, almost cautious gesture.

“Alright,” he said, voice lower now, more measured. “Easy.”

He glanced around the room, already calculating.

“I’ll fix it.”

A pause.

His jaw tightened faintly as he added,

“…didn’t realize you’d used my clothes.”

Another glance at the cleared space.

Then back to her.

“Explains a few things.”