Slade drew the line very clearly.

“No,” he said flatly, already irritated that this even needed clarifying. “I am not calling you ‘mommy’ in bed.”

He scrubbed a hand down his face like he was recalibrating after bad intel. “That’s not edgy. That’s not hot. That’s a psychological minefield I am not stepping into.”

Slade shifted, voice lowering into something dead serious. “I do nicknames. I do endearments. I do situational terms of affection.” A beat. “I do not do parental titles.”

He glanced away, jaw tight. “There are lines. I know exactly where they are. And that one is bright red with warning tape.”

A pause.

“…Also,” he added, gruffer now, “my mother would end me from beyond the grave.”

Slade straightened, matter settled. “So we’re not doing that. Pick literally anything else.”

For a man who lived in moral gray zones, this was one boundary he didn’t negotiate.

And once Slade decided something was off-limits—

That was the end of the discussion.