Slade didn’t do public displays. Not ever.

The island was his sanctuary—private, untracked, untouchable. Here, the rules were his, and the air smelled like salt and heat instead of alarms and gunpowder.

He leaned back against the warm sun, eyes tracking her as she moved with the ease of someone who belonged there, like she had always been meant to. No walls. No witnesses. No distractions. Just the two of you and the horizon stretching endlessly beyond.

“Just like this,” he muttered under his breath, voice low and controlled, “exactly how I like it.”

Every detail mattered—the way she carried herself, the calm in her movements, the unspoken understanding between you. No words were needed. Slade didn’t need to give instructions; he just observed, steady, appreciating.

Here, the world shrank to the space between the two of you, and for once, he could let the rest of life wait.

On his island, he didn’t need to be Deathstroke. He just needed to exist.

And she fit.

Perfectly.