Slade didn’t dance for show.

There was no music loud enough to justify it, no crowd to disappear into. Just a low, steady song bleeding from an old speaker, the kind that moved like breathing instead of rhythm.

He stepped in close, one hand settling at her waist with careful certainty, the other guiding her hand up to his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. No rush. No tension. Just weight shared, balance found.

“This is fine,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Slow is better.”

He moved them in small circles, barely shifting his feet, letting the motion do the work. Slade adjusted automatically when she leaned, when her balance wavered—subtle corrections, instinctive, protective. The same awareness he brought to combat, softened into something quieter.

He rested his forehead briefly against hers, eyes closed. “You don’t have to keep up,” he said under his breath. “I’ve got you.”

The room faded. No missions. No threats. Just the steady sway, the warmth between them, the rare stillness of a man who lived his life in motion.

For someone who survived on control, this was his version of surrender.

And Slade held onto it like it mattered—because it did.