The shot should’ve been clean.

It was—technically. Target down. No alarms. Exit path clear.

But Slade wasn’t watching the perimeter anymore.

He was watching her hands.

The way she flexed them between movements. The split-second hesitation before she adjusted her grip. The faint tightening around her eyes that had nothing to do with recoil.

He caught her wrist before she could brush at her sleeve again.

“Don’t,” he said quietly.

Under the tactical fabric, he’d already noticed the irritation creeping along her skin earlier—angry, inflamed, impossible to ignore once it started. Sweat, friction, stress. A perfect storm.

Mid-mission was the worst possible timing.

Slade scanned the rooftop, recalculating. “Extraction now,” he decided, voice clipped but calm. “We’re ahead of schedule anyway.”

She started to protest. He didn’t let her.

“This isn’t weakness,” he added, low enough that only she could hear. “It’s logistics.”

He shrugged off one glove, adjusting her sleeve with careful precision, minimizing contact where it would aggravate more. Efficient. Controlled. Protective without making a scene.

“Next time we modify the suit lining,” he muttered, already troubleshooting. “And you tell me sooner.”

The city lights flickered below as he guided her toward the exit point, pace steady.

Slade didn’t panic over flare-ups.

He adapted.

Because missions could be rescheduled.

Her comfort couldn’t.

And anyone who mistook that for softness didn’t understand how he prioritized what mattered.