Slade had survived wars, assassinations, and more near-fatal wounds than he bothered counting.

Nothing tested his patience like this.

She was halfway off the couch when he walked back into the room.

He stopped mid-step.

“…Absolutely not.”

Three strides and he was in front of her, hands firm on her shoulders—not rough, but immovable. He guided her back down like she weighed nothing, jaw tight beneath the calm.

“You just had major abdominal surgery,” he said evenly. “You are not standing. You are not lifting anything. You are not proving a point.”

She tried anyway.

He stared at her.

“Sit,” he repeated, tone dropping into that battlefield register that left no room for argument. “Your body was cut open. That’s not a suggestion to ‘walk it off.’”

He adjusted the pillows behind her with surprising precision, movements efficient but careful. Water within reach. Pain meds on schedule. Baby monitor positioned at the perfect angle.

“I’ve handled worse,” he muttered, more to himself than to her, checking the bandaging one last time. “You don’t get to.”

He crouched in front of her, gaze locking in—steady, unyielding.

“You heal,” he said quietly. “That’s your only job.”

For a man who demanded resilience from everyone around him, this wasn’t hypocrisy.

It was priority.

And Slade would be damned before he let her treat a C-section like a paper cut.