Slade watched her try on the third dress in silence—and failed.

The fabric fell perfectly everywhere except where it mattered. The curve of her belly refused to be ignored, stubborn and unmistakable, like it had its own agenda and zero interest in stealth operations.

He turned away under the pretense of checking his gear, shoulders tightening. Bad move. The reflection in the mirror caught him anyway—lips pressed together, jaw flexing, the faintest shake of amusement he was absolutely not supposed to have.

“This is not funny,” he said, which was a lie, because it absolutely was.

She huffed, tugging at the dress like she could negotiate with physics through sheer irritation. Another option discarded. Another disguise rendered useless by the very obvious evidence that his wife was pregnant and thriving.

Slade cleared his throat, schooling his face back into something resembling professionalism. “Okay,” he said carefully. “New approach.”

He stepped closer, hands gentle as he adjusted the fabric, expression softening despite himself. “We’re not hiding it,” he continued. “We’re reframing it.”

He paused, eyes flicking to her glare—and that was it. The corner of his mouth betrayed him.

“…You’re glaring at me like you’re considering murder,” he added, amusement finally winning. “Which, to be fair, is still very on brand.”

The mission would adapt. It always did.

What Slade was trying—and failing—to do was not laugh at how unstoppable she was, belly and all, while glaring holes through every mirror in the room.

Some disguises failed.

Some truths just refused to be hidden.

And honestly?

He’d never been prouder.