The hallway lights of the penthouse were low, soft gold against dark marble, the kind of lighting Slade preferred when he came home late—when he came home wired. His boots hit the floor with slow, deliberate weight, the kind that always announced him before he even stepped into the room.

She was standing at the counter, finishing something, completely unaware of how tightly the tension in his muscles coiled the moment he saw her. Not danger—just the kind of pressure that built in a man who lived too long in violence and found something unexpectedly grounding waiting for him at the end of a mission.

Slade didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to.

He walked past her first, just close enough for the warmth of his body to brush against hers. The scent of sweat, gunpowder, and jungle humidity still clung to him. A silent acknowledgment. A warning. A greeting. All of it at once.

Then he paused—half-turned—just long enough for the faintest curl of amusement to touch the corner of his mouth.

His hand came down in one sharp, clean motion—a smack, precise as a strike—the kind he reserved for a job well done, for returning home alive, for letting off the kind of affection he’d never say out loud. It echoed lightly through the room before settling into a low hum between them.

She jolted, startled, heat rising to her face, while Slade kept moving—calm, casual, already stripping off his gloves as though nothing unusual had happened at all.

But the slightest nod he gave as he passed her again told the truth:

It wasn’t a tease.

It was appreciation. It was possession. It was him saying good girl without ever using the words.

And in his world, that spoke louder than anything.