Slade had always noticed the little things.

He was the type of man who read rooms the way other people read headlines — fast, accurate, unavoidable. He could tell when a target was lying by the twitch of a finger, when a business deal was going south by the way someone breathed. And tonight, he could tell something was different the second she walked into the kitchen.

Her morning coffee sat untouched. The smell of it used to ground her, pull her into the day, but now she just circled it, restless, distant. Slade watched her move — slower, hand brushing her lower stomach when she thought nobody was looking. She pressed cool water to the back of her neck like she’d been overheating.

The trash can held ginger tea wrappers. The fridge had suddenly sprouted pickles and crackers. But it wasn’t any of that, not really. Slade wasn’t guessing. He knew.

Because last night, when she’d fallen asleep on the couch, something in her breathing changed. Softer. Protective. Instinctive in a way most people never understood but Slade recognized instantly.

A soldier’s senses never turn off. Not during peace, not during domestic quiet, not even in the moments that should have been ordinary.

He crossed the room, stopping just behind her. She didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. She stayed perfectly still, staring down at her hands like they had answers.

Slade rested his palm at the small of her back — warm, steady, grounding. No shock, no surprise. His expression didn’t change; he wasn’t the type for theatrics. He simply accepted it, already thinking ten steps ahead: doctors, security, exits, who needed to disappear if the world tried to take this from them.

He didn’t need a test. He didn’t need confirmation.

He already knew.

And in his mind, the mission had already begun — protect, provide, prepare.

The battlefield was different now. But he was still Deathstroke.

Only this time, the life he was guarding was smaller. And infinitely more important.