Slade treated the flu like a hostile incursion.

He’d cleared his schedule, rerouted contracts, and showed up at his mother’s house with enough supplies to survive a siege. Thermometer. Soup. Electrolytes. Meds lined up with military precision on the counter. He checked the locks twice before even looking at her.

She was in bed. Slightly flushed. Mild cough. Annoyed more than anything.

Slade hovered.

“Okay,” he said, low and serious, pressing the thermometer into her hand, “we’re not taking chances.”

He paced while it beeped, muttering to himself. “It’s viral. That means rest. Fluids. No stubborn nonsense where you pretend you’re fine and end up worse.”

He frowned at the reading like it had personally offended him. “You’re running a fever.”

He was already adjusting blankets, opening windows exactly an inch, then closing them again. “Too cold. No—wait. You need airflow. But not drafts. Drafts are how it escalates.”

Slade disappeared into the kitchen and came back with soup he’d definitely overcooked out of anxiety. He set it down carefully. “You’re eating this. I don’t care if you’re ‘not hungry.’ That’s not a medical opinion.”

He knelt by the bed, voice dropping despite himself. “You should’ve called me sooner.”

A beat.

Then, quieter, gruffer. “It’s just the flu,” he repeated, like he didn’t believe it. “That’s what they all say.”

He reached out, adjusted the blanket again, unnecessarily gentle for a man who’d snapped necks without blinking. Sat there longer than required. Watched her breathe. Counted it. Relaxed only when it stayed steady.

Slade had faced worse than this.

But none of it ever scared him half as much as the idea of losing her to something small, stupid, and preventable.

So yes—he was dramatic.

And he’d do it again.