Slade noticed patterns.

It was how he stayed alive—how he learned people, learned enemies, learned weaknesses before anyone realized he was looking for them.

So it didn’t take long for him to notice hers.

Same routine. Same meals. Same controlled portions of blood like she was rationing for a war that had already ended.

Always refusing everything else.

Always pushing human food away like it might burn her.

Like she didn’t know if it would kill her.

Slade leaned against the kitchen counter, watching her with that quiet, assessing stare he used when he was already three steps ahead of a problem.

“You know,” he said evenly, arms crossing over his chest, “most people would’ve experimented by now.”

His gaze dropped briefly to the glass in her hand, then back to her face.

“You’ve been surviving,” he continued. “Not living.”

He pushed off the counter and walked to the fridge, movements unhurried, like he had all the time in the world.

When he opened it, the light cut across his face, sharpening the angles, the eye that missed nothing.

“You’re not as fragile as you think you are,” he said, pulling something out and setting it on the counter between them.

A pause.

Then he looked back at her.

“Blood’s not the only way.”

His voice was calm. Certain. Like he’d already tested the theory himself and survived to prove it.

“You just need someone who knows what they’re doing.”

He slid the plate a little closer to her with one finger.

“Try it.”