Slade had never been known for gentleness. But tonight, he was learning.

The woman before him was no stranger to fear—life had taught her that touch could hurt, that closeness came with consequences. She didn’t flinch from danger, but she hesitated at tenderness. And somehow, that hit harder than any blade ever had.

She sat on the edge of the bed, robe loose around her shoulders, eyes cast down like she was waiting for a verdict. Slade didn’t rush. He moved slowly, deliberately, like defusing a bomb. Like every step forward was a privilege, not a right.

He knelt in front of her—not because he had to, but because she deserved someone who would.

His voice, when it came, was low and steady. “You set the pace.”

Her fingers trembled as they reached for him. But they reached.

And in that moment, the man they called Deathstroke forgot war, forgot bloodshed, forgot the world.

All he saw was her—and the quiet, courageous trust it took to let him in.