Slade didn’t yell.

He didn’t need to.

The weight of his presence alone could still a room, freeze a breath, silence a thought. When he walked in—blood on his knuckles, tension wound tight in his jaw—she didn’t ask what happened. She never did.

She simply met his eyes, all soft lashes and careful calm, and reached for the rag and antiseptic.

Slade sat, wordless. Let her tend to the parts of him the world didn’t see—split knuckles, old scars, new ghosts. Her hands shook, but she never pulled away. Not from him.

And that, more than anything, kept the monster tame.

For now.