Slade didn’t break his own rules lightly.

First dates were for assessments—tone, tells, how someone handled silence. He usually left before midnight, before things blurred, before attachment tried to masquerade as chemistry.

Usually.

Tonight didn’t follow the usual script.

He watched the way you held his gaze without flinching, how your laugh cut through his reserve instead of bouncing off it. There was no hurry in him, no edge. Just that quiet certainty he trusted more than impulse.

“Hm,” he murmured, setting his glass aside. “This is where I say I don’t do this.”

A beat. A look. The corner of his mouth tipped, barely.

“And this is where I decide exceptions exist.”

He stood, offering a hand like it was nothing—like the decision hadn’t already been made hours ago. There was no rush upstairs, no fumbling urgency. Just proximity tightening, awareness sharpening, the kind of anticipation that felt earned.

Slade paused at the threshold, eyes steady on yours. “If we’re doing this,” he said low, “we’re doing it because we want to. No regrets.”

The door closed behind you, the city falling away.

For a man who lived by rules, it wasn’t the breaking of one that surprised him—

It was how easy the exception felt.