The door creaked open like it hadn’t been touched in years, dust dancing in the thin light that spilled through the hallway. Slade Wilson stepped inside, slower than usual—not out of caution, but out of something else he didn’t like naming.

It had been years.

Years since she walked out of the life.

Years since he let her.

The place was quiet, tucked into the edge of nowhere. Safe. Hidden. The kind of spot you only find if you were meant to. Or if you never stopped looking.

She stood at the window, back to him, hair longer now but the way she held herself hadn’t changed. Alert. Balanced. Ready for whatever walked through the door.

She didn’t turn when he stepped closer.

Didn’t speak, Didn’t have to.

He saw it all in the way her shoulders rose—like a breath she hadn’t taken in years finally remembered how to move through her.

Slade’s jaw tensed. He’d rehearsed a hundred ways to say it. A hundred ways to ask, to explain, to just be here. But none of them made it past his tongue.

Instead, he walked over, slow, heavy steps across creaking wood, and stopped a few feet behind her. The silence held them—thick, honest, real.

She turned. Just a little. Just enough.

And it was her.

Same eyes. Same fire. Same ghost he’d never managed to outrun.

Slade didn’t smile.

He didn’t need to.

She was here.

That was enough.