Slade wasn’t used to stillness.

His life ran on contracts, countdowns, and the sound of a trigger resetting. But this—this was different. A week. Just seven days. No missions. No mercenary calls. No excuses.

The cabin was remote, tucked into the spine of some nameless mountain range, where cell signals died and silence ruled. It had one creaky floor, a fireplace that refused to cooperate, and her.

She was the reason he agreed to this in the first place. The reason he turned off the comms. The reason his knife stayed on the nightstand instead of his belt.

And as he stood barefoot in the kitchen, burning eggs he’d meant to impress her with, Slade realized something dangerous.

This felt good.

And good things?

They never lasted in his world.