Slade never trusted anyone near his throat. Too many lifetimes spent anticipating the slip of a blade, the twitch of an assassin’s fingers, the quiet treachery in a mirror. But he sat anyway—calm, unarmored, letting her stand over him with the razor he’d sharpened that morning.

He didn’t move, didn’t flinch, didn’t even breathe too deeply as her fingers tilted his chin. The scar tissue along his jaw caught the light, pale lines mapping out every fight he’d ever walked away from. Anyone else would have turned this into a threat. Slade treated it like something closer to reverence.

He watched her hands the entire time. Not out of suspicion—habit. And because it amused him to see how steady she stayed when he was the one in the vulnerable position for once. The lather, the razor, the slow scrape down his cheek… it was the quietest he’d been all week.

When she finished, he didn’t need a mirror. He could feel the clean lines, the careful work. His jaw was sharp again, dangerous again, but softened for the moment by the simple fact that she’d been the one holding the blade.

Slade stood, wiped away the last bit of shaving cream, and gave a low exhale that sounded almost like he’d forgotten what stillness felt like.