Slade did not split checks.

He didn’t “go halves.”

He paid. End of discussion.

It wasn’t ego—at least that’s what he told himself. It was structure. Order. He handled logistics. She didn’t need to think about it.

So when he stepped away to the restroom—quick, efficient, no nonsense—he fully expected to return, drop his card, and leave.

Instead—

The server handed him a receipt.

Paid.

Slade stared at it.

“…What is this?”

The server smiled nervously. “She took care of it.”

He turned slowly.

She was sitting there like nothing happened. Calm. Casual. Taking a sip of her drink like she hadn’t just committed a strategic offense.

Slade walked back to the table, jaw tight.

“You paid,” he said flatly.

She didn’t deny it.

He exhaled through his nose once.

“You waited until I was out of the room,” he continued, voice low but controlled. “That’s premeditated.”

He picked up the receipt again, examining it like it was evidence in a trial.

“I don’t like being outmaneuvered at my own table.”

But there was something in his eye that wasn’t anger.

It was respect.

Annoyed respect.

He leaned down slightly, hand braced on the back of her chair.

“Don’t do it again,” he warned.

A beat.

“…Unless you’re prepared for retaliation.”

He straightened, tossing enough cash on the table to cover tip twice over—because of course he did.

As they walked out, his hand settled firmly at the small of her back.

Pissed?

Yes.

Impressed?

Absolutely.

She’d picked her moment.

And Slade didn’t forget lessons like that.