Slade woke to warmth that shouldn’t have been there.

His side of the bed was never warm—he was always the one who slipped out before dawn, body armor in one hand, coffee in the other, gone before she ever stirred. But this morning the mattress still held heat, dented in the shape of him, like he hadn’t moved at all.

She lay sprawled across her pillows, hair a dark spill, breathing slow and even. He studied her for a long moment, the quiet too peaceful, too domestic. The alarm clock blinked 5:17 AM. The world outside was waiting for him to be Deathstroke.

But the warmth on the sheets told a different story: he had stayed. All night. No missions. No contracts. Just the steady pulse of a life he didn’t admit he wanted.

Slade dragged a hand through his hair and stared at the ceiling. Which was worse—someone trying to kill him, or waking up feeling human?

He didn’t have an answer.

Yet he didn’t move, either.