The house looked like a storm had passed through it.

Furniture overturned. Broken picture frames. Scattered books and shattered glass swept into messy piles that hadn’t been fully cleaned yet.

Slade stood in the doorway for a long moment.

Not angry.

Not surprised.

He had been gone three days.

Manic episodes didn’t follow calendars.

He set his duffel bag down quietly.

Boots moved carefully across the floor, avoiding the larger shards as he descended the stairs to the basement.

The light was already on.

She was in the corner.

Curled inward like she was trying to occupy less space inside her own body.

Crying.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Quiet, exhausted crying that had nowhere left to go.

Slade stopped a few feet away.

Did not move closer immediately.

He spoke first.

“Hey,” he said softly.

No accusation in the tone.

No judgment.

Just presence.

“I’m home.”

A long silence followed.

He crouched slowly, forearms resting on his knees, making himself smaller so she wouldn’t feel cornered.

“I saw the house,” he continued quietly. “You didn’t hurt yourself?”

He waited for the smallest shake of her head before nodding once.

“Good.”

Another pause.

“I am not angry,” he added, voice steady. “The furniture is replaceable.”

He reached very slowly, giving her time to react, resting one hand near—not on—her arm.

“What happened upstairs doesn’t matter right now,” he said. “You are not in trouble.”

His thumb moved slightly, a grounding gesture more than contact.

“We will clean later,” he continued. “Or not. Doesn’t matter.”

He studied her face.

“You are safe here,” he said quietly.

Not a demand.

Not a promise he expected her to believe immediately.

Just something he chose to state anyway.

Because Slade had seen enough war to know that sometimes survival looked like sitting in a corner and crying until the storm inside stopped moving.