Slade noticed it the first time she leaned over the workbench.

Low-rise tactical pants. Shirt riding up just enough.

Ink.

Small. Sharp. Centered at the small of her back.

He went still.

“…Since when?” he asked evenly.

She didn’t answer. Just kept cleaning her weapon like she hadn’t just detonated a distraction.

Slade stepped closer.

The design wasn’t flashy. No cheap curves or careless lines. It was deliberate—precise script wrapping around a symbol that meant something. To her.

His gloved fingers hovered just above it.

Not touching.

Assessing.

“Bold placement,” he murmured.

She straightened slowly.

Now he could see it fully. Dark against skin. Permanent.

His jaw shifted slightly.

“You realize,” he continued, voice low, “that I’m going to notice that every time you turn around.”

A pause.

“And I’m not subtle.”

He finally let his fingers rest at her waist, thumbs brushing just above the ink.

“Who signed off on this?” he asked dryly.

She gave him that look again—the one that said she didn’t require authorization.

He exhaled, almost amused.

“…Of course you didn’t.”

He stepped back, eye dragging once more over the design.

Not possessive.

Not angry.

Just aware.

“Next time,” he said calmly, reaching for his mask, “warn me before you weaponize your lower back.”

Because Slade appreciated precision.

And that tattoo?

Was placed with intent.