Slade did not get sentimental about birthdays.

He got older. That was it.

So when she handed him a long, narrow case without ceremony, he raised a brow—but took it.

“Didn’t ask for anything,” he reminded her.

He opened it anyway.

The blade inside wasn’t flashy. No unnecessary engraving. No decorative nonsense.

It was balanced.

Perfectly.

He lifted it slowly, testing the weight in his hand. The grip fit like it had been molded from memory. The center of balance hit exactly where he preferred it—slightly forward. The edge caught the light with a clean, disciplined gleam.

He turned it once.

Twice.

Then made a small, precise adjustment with his wrist.

It responded exactly how he liked.

His eye narrowed slightly.

“You had this custom made,” he said, not asking.

A thumb ran along the hilt, finding the subtle detail—reinforced tang, textured grip, the specific curve he’d mentioned once, offhand, months ago.

He hadn’t realized she’d memorized it.

Slade stepped closer, blade still in hand.

“You paid attention,” he said quietly.

There was no teasing. No sarcasm.

Just recognition.

He sheathed it with a clean click, then rested his hand at her waist, firm and grounding.

“Dangerous gift,” he murmured. “Now I’ll think of you every time I use it.”

A beat.

“…I don’t hate that.”

For a man who valued precision above all else, there wasn’t a higher compliment.

She hadn’t bought him something expensive.

She’d bought him something exact.

And Slade respected precision.