The smell hit him before he saw her.

Eggs. Toast. Something simmering on the stove.

Slade froze in the doorway of the kitchen.

She was standing there—careful, slower than usual, one hand subtly braced against the counter. Stitches barely a week old. Doctor’s instructions very clear.

No lifting. No standing long periods. No strain.

And yet.

“What,” he said flatly, “are you doing?”

She didn’t turn around fast enough.

That was his second clue.

Slade crossed the room in three strides, turning off the burner before she could protest. His hand settled at her waist—not gentle, not rough. Just firm enough to redirect.

“You were cut open,” he reminded her evenly. “Abdominal surgery. That’s not optional recovery.”

She tried to wave him off.

He stared at her.

“You making breakfast does not impress me,” he added, lowering his voice. “It irritates me.”

Carefully—carefully—he guided her back toward the chair, adjusting his hold so there was no pressure on her incision.

“You heal,” he said, crouching in front of her so she had to meet his eye. “I cook.”

There was no debate in his tone.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead—quick, deliberate—before standing and rolling up his sleeves.

“Next time,” he muttered, reaching for the pan, “you wake me up.”

Because Slade didn’t measure love by sacrifice.

He measured it by who got to rest.

And right now—

That was her.