Slade never liked second chances. They usually came wrapped in apologies, excuses, and problems you couldn’t shoot your way out of. But when his sister texted him “I need a place,” he didn’t ask questions. He just cleared a room.

It was the spare bedroom at the end of the hall—clean, quiet, untouched except for the weight bench he’d shoved in there months ago. The house smelled like gun oil, coffee, and old books. Comfort, in its own violent way.

She arrived in the middle of the night, suitcase scuffed, eyes tired but defiant. There were bruises on her knuckles—fresh ones—and she was trying too hard to pretend they weren’t there. Slade didn’t comment. Family didn’t interrogate battle damage on the doorstep.

He took her bag without a word. Showed her the room. Told her where the coffee and extra ammo were. That was his version of love.

Later, when the house had gone quiet, he paused outside her door. He could hear her breathing—slow, uneven, trying not to fall apart. It hit him then, heavier than any contract he’d ever signed: she had come back because she had nobody else she trusted.

For a man who made a life out of not caring, that realization curved sharp.

Slade locked every window, every door, set the alarm twice, and sat on the couch with his sword within reach. If anyone tried to follow her here, they’d never walk out.

It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t nostalgia.

It was protection.

And tonight, that was enough.