Slade had walked into the club for information.

That was it.

A name. A contact. Five minutes of recon.

He hadn’t expected the lights to cut low and the music to shift—and he definitely hadn’t expected to look up and see her.

On stage.

Moving like she owned the room.

He went still.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t react. Just watched.

It wasn’t jealousy that tightened his jaw.

It was surprise.

Because in three months, through missions and late-night debriefs and quiet mornings, she’d told him about past contracts, scars, exes, debts—

But not this.

When her eyes finally found him in the crowd, there it was.

Recognition.

And something close to panic.

Slade didn’t make a scene. Didn’t storm the stage. Didn’t glare at anyone else watching.

He waited.

Afterward, when she stepped into the back hallway, still flushed from the lights, he was already there—leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

“I don’t care that you dance,” he said evenly.

And he didn’t.

His gaze held hers, steady.

“I care that I had to find out like that.”

There was no judgment in his voice. No accusation.

Just expectation.

“You don’t hide parts of your life from me,” he continued, quieter now. “Not if we’re doing this.”

Because Slade could handle danger.

He could handle secrets, too.

He just preferred knowing which ones were his