Slade didn’t need words to make a point.

Sometimes it was the weight of his stare. Other times, it was the way his hands moved—deliberate, commanding, and never unsure. But today, it was the sound: a sharp, unapologetic smack that echoed in the hallway.

She gasped, halfway between a laugh and a glare, already turning to scold him.

But Slade? He just gave her that half-smirk. The one that meant trouble. The one that meant he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Move faster,” he said, voice low. “Or I’ll give you another reason to.”

And just like that, she forgot what she was about to say.