Three months.

No calls.

No coordinates.

No confirmation he was still breathing.

The sheets had been cold long enough that you’d stopped reaching for the other side in your sleep.

And then—

Weight shifted behind you.

A familiar presence. Controlled breathing. The faint scent of gun oil and cold night air.

Slade didn’t wake you gently.

He didn’t announce himself.

He just slid into the space like it had always belonged to him.

An arm settled around your waist—firm, grounding, unapologetically certain.

“You moved the nightstand,” he muttered quietly against the dark, voice rough from disuse. “Two inches to the left.”

Like that was the most important detail.

Like three months hadn’t happened.

You stiffened.

Of course you did.

He noticed.

He always noticed.

His grip tightened just slightly—not forceful, just enough to anchor.

“Missed this,” he said, low and matter-of-fact.

No dramatic apology.

No explanation yet.

Just presence.

His thumb traced a slow, absent pattern against your side, like he was reacquainting himself with something familiar.

“Still breathing,” he added after a beat. “In case you were wondering.”

The audacity.

Three months gone.

And he shows up like the world simply paused in his absence.

His forehead rested against the back of your shoulder.

“I’ll explain in the morning,” he murmured. “Too tired to argue tonight.”

A pause.

“Didn’t sleep right without you.”

Quiet.

Steady.

Like he expected the space beside you to open automatically.

Like it always had.

And maybe—

That was the problem.