Slade never bought gifts. Tools, weapons, tactical upgrades—sure. But gifts? No. Those were sentimental, and sentiment was a luxury he didn’t admit to having.

Yet here he was, standing in the middle of his living room with a large, calm German Shepherd sitting obediently at his side. The dog’s eyes were sharp, alert, trained to notice changes in breathing, posture, heart rate—trained to protect. Trained for her.

She approached slowly, wrapped in one of his old shirts, expression half-curious, half-exhausted. The dog rose immediately, tail low but wagging once, sensing her before she even stepped into the room.

Slade watched the interaction from a distance—arms crossed, face unreadable, but shoulders just slightly less tense than usual. The dog nudged her hand gently, recognizing her scent, her imbalance, her fatigue. A living alarm system. A steady companion. A safeguard he could trust even when he wasn’t home to watch her himself.

He didn’t explain how long it took to find a dog with the right temperament. He didn’t describe the vetting process, the hours of training sessions, or the paperwork he practically intimidated his way through. He didn’t mention the soft spot in him that made this choice inevitable.

He simply stood there, knowing it was the one form of protection she wouldn’t argue with.

And when she finally knelt to scratch behind the dog’s ears, Slade allowed himself a rare, quiet breath—because for once, he had chosen something gentle. Something safe. Something that would stay with her even when he couldn’t.

He didn’t give gifts. But he gave her this. And that meant more than anything he’d ever wrapped in steel.