Slade froze mid-retort.

“…Don’t sass me, boy.”

The word hit him like a pressure point. He straightened immediately, mouth snapping shut, posture recalibrating from lethal to—contained. He cleared his throat, suddenly very interested in the floor.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, the edge gone so fast it was almost embarrassing.

He tried again, carefully. “I was just saying—” He stopped himself, exhaled. “No. You’re right. I’ll drop it.”

He folded his arms, then thought better of it and let them fall to his sides. “I forget sometimes,” he muttered, quieter now. “Who raised who.”

A beat passed. Longer than he liked.

“I get… protective,” he admitted. “Occupational hazard.” He glanced up, then away. “But I hear you.”

He nodded once, decisive. “No more tone. No more attitude.”

Another pause. Then, softer—almost sheepish. “You still scare me more than anyone I’ve ever met.”

Slade, assassin, mercenary, legend—reined in by a single sentence and the woman who’d never once needed to raise her voice.

And he wouldn’t have it any other way.