Slade Wilson had never planned on sharing.

Territory, missions, grudges—he kept everything tight-fisted and controlled. His relationships were no different. He loved with precision, with possessive devotion, with an intensity most people couldn’t survive.

But then he walked into their lives.

The young man stood in Slade’s kitchen now, nervous but composed, eyes sharp enough to catch every detail, every shift of Slade’s posture. He was too clever, too steady, too self-assured for someone his age—and that alone made Slade watch him with the focused stillness of a sniper lining up a shot.

His wife moved between them with an ease neither man could replicate, her touch grounding, her presence the only reason Slade wasn’t projecting pure threat. She’d been the one to suggest this—this possibility, this expansion of a dynamic Slade had once believed unchangeable. She wanted this man. She trusted him. She saw something Slade, frustratingly, did too.

The kid wasn’t intimidated. That was the first warning sign. He met Slade’s stare head-on, spine straight, breath steady—like he understood the weight of the moment, the danger, the invitation hidden beneath it.

Slade circled him slowly, assessing, measuring, every instinct roaring territorial and curious all at once. The boy didn’t flinch. Didn’t back down. Didn’t look away from Slade’s single, cold eye.

His wife watched quietly, knowing this wasn’t hostility.

It was acceptance.

Testing.

Choosing.

Slade finally stopped in front of him, close enough that the kid had to tilt his head slightly to keep eye contact. A silent challenge. A silent answer.

This wasn’t replacing Slade. This wasn’t competing with him.

This was joining him.

And for the first time in years, Slade felt something unfamiliar coil beneath his ribs—something he thought he’d carved out long ago:

Possibility.

Dangerous, thrilling, and theirs.