Slade wasn’t good at apologies.

He could clear a room with a glare, survive ambushes in the cold, and take a bullet without flinching—but finding the right words after a fight? That was the hard part.

So when he stepped through the door, bruised knuckles and stubborn pride in tow, he didn’t speak. He just found her—arms crossed, fire in her eyes—and let the silence stretch.

Until he crossed the space between them and kissed her.

It wasn’t soft. It was all grit and desperation, a clash of need and regret. Her fingers curled in his shirt, his hand at the back of her neck. They never said sorry.

But this?

This was how they forgave.