The eyepatch sat on the counter between them—black, simple, identical to his. Slade had ordered it before she even left the hospital, before the bandages came off, before she had even fully realized what she’d lost. He knew the look in her eye—well, the one she still had—when she finally saw herself in the mirror. Shock first. Then rage. Then that hollow, sinking quiet that no surgery could fix.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. He just placed the eyepatch in her hand and waited while she traced the stitching with trembling fingers. Not from weakness—but from the weight of accepting a new version of herself.

Later, when she finally slid it on and adjusted the strap, Slade watched her shoulders shift. Straighten. Settle. Not the same woman she was last week. Sharper now. Meaner. Forged in pain—but standing.

He stepped beside her in the mirror, his own patch gleaming under the overhead light. Two reflections staring back. One old battle. One brand new.

But together?

They looked like belonging. Like blood. Like Wilsons.

And no one in the world was ever going to mistake who they were again.