Slade never warned her about the things he did at home. Missions required discipline, layers of armor, steel plates and Kevlar. But here—inside the quiet sprawl of his private estate—he shed it all with the same ease he’d shed an opponent’s defenses.

The morning light cut through the floor-to-ceiling windows, warm and soft across the hardwood. Slade walked through it without a care, towel slung around his neck, sweat still drying from his workout. No underwear. No pretense. Just bare confidence and a body carved from decades of violence moving through the kitchen like it belonged to him as much as the weapons upstairs did.

She paused in the doorway when she saw him, and he noticed—of course he noticed. He smirked without turning, reaching for his coffee mug with an ease that made the entire scene feel intentional. His muscles shifted, tattoos pulling with every subtle movement, a silent reminder that this was a man who’d never needed armor to intimidate.

He didn’t cover himself. Didn’t reach for clothes. Didn’t act like anything was unusual at all. Slade Wilson moved through the house like he moved through a battlefield—unapologetically, unbothered, entirely in command of the air around him.

And the worst part? He knew exactly what it did to her.

He leaned against the counter, bare and relaxed, sipping his coffee like mornings were supposed to look like this. Like he had every right to walk around unarmored and unashamed, letting her stare as much as she needed to.

Slade didn’t need words to make a point.

Walking around the house like this was the point.