Slade wasn’t a man who let his guard down. Not in combat, not in bed, and definitely not in front of a mirror.

But that morning, post-mission and post-satisfaction, he caught sight of himself while pulling on his black shirt—and paused.

Right there on his collarbone. Faint, red, unmistakable.

A hickey.

He stared at it like it was a grenade someone had tucked under his skin. Not because it hurt, but because it marked him—claimed him. Not with ownership, but with intent. With affection, maybe even a little defiance.

She’d done that. Left proof that even Deathstroke had someone who left bruises with kisses instead of bullets.

Slade didn’t smile often.

But that morning, he did.

Just a little.