The house had stayed exactly the same.

Slade made sure of it.

Nothing moved. Nothing replaced. Her boots still by the door. Her mug still in the cabinet—second shelf, left side. The faint scratch on the dining table from the night she cleaned her blade without a coaster.

Eighteen months.

A year and a half of encrypted updates, delayed signals, and missions that kept extending with no firm extraction date.

He didn’t ask when she was coming home anymore.

He asked if she was still breathing.

The engine outside cut off.

Slade was already standing.

He didn’t rush to the door.

He opened it before she could knock.

There she was.

Different. Leaner. A new scar at her jaw. Eyes sharper, like they’d seen too much distance.

But alive.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then he stepped forward and pulled her in—tight, controlled, one hand at the back of her neck like he was confirming she was solid.

“You’re late,” he said quietly.

His voice was steady.

His grip was not.

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding for eighteen months.

The world had kept turning. Contracts had been completed. Targets eliminated.

But the house had stayed waiting.

He stepped back just enough to look at her fully.

“Unpack,” he added, hand still resting at her waist. “You’re not leaving again.”

It wasn’t a command.

It was a statement he intended to make true.

After a year and a half of distance—

Slade finally had his wife back in his line of sight.

And he did not plan on blinking.