Slade did not forget debts.

He also didn’t rush them.

Three months ago, she’d said it lightly—I owe you one—after he’d stepped in, cleaned up a mess that could’ve gone very differently.

He’d just nodded.

Filed it away.

Tonight, he closed the door behind him with deliberate quiet.

“You remember what you said,” he began, removing his gloves finger by finger.

Not a question.

He leaned back against the wall, arms crossing over his chest, watching her carefully.

“I don’t collect small favors,” he continued evenly. “I let them accrue.”

A slow step forward.

“You told me I could call it in whenever I wanted.”

Another step.

“Well.”

He stopped just within her space, not touching yet—just close enough that she had to look up at him.

“I’m calling it in.”

There was no malice in his expression.

No cruelty.

Just that sharp, calculated patience he carried into everything.

His hand finally lifted, brushing a thumb under her chin, tilting her face toward his.

“One favor,” he murmured. “No negotiation.”

A pause.

“And you don’t get to complain about the terms.”

For Slade, debts weren’t about power.

They were about timing.

And he had impeccable timing.