Slade didn’t force the lock.

He never did.

The house was quiet in the way that only familiar places were—every creak mapped in his head, every shadow already accounted for. He moved through it without a sound, muscle memory guiding him down the hall, past the room that used to be his, toward the one that had always been hers.

She was asleep when he reached the bed.

Breathing slow. Unarmed. Safe in a way she never had been when he was still part of her life.

Slade paused there longer than he needed to, watching the rise and fall of her shoulders, the faint line between her brows that hadn’t been there years ago. Regret wasn’t his style, but recognition was. This—this—was a mistake he’d never quite stopped circling.

He shed his gear piece by piece, controlled and quiet, and slid beneath the covers like he belonged there. Like he always had. The mattress dipped. She stirred, instinctively shifting closer to the warmth without waking.

Slade went still.

For a man who survived firefights and betrayals, this was the dangerous part—being close without armor, sharing space with someone who knew him before the mask hardened.

He didn’t touch her.

Didn’t need to.

Just lay there, listening, letting the moment exist longer than it should have.

Breaking in had been easy.

Leaving again?

That was the part Slade had never mastered.