Slade always came back smelling like gunpowder, city rain, and places he couldn’t talk about.

It was the life. The job. The constant movement between safe houses, contracts, and cities that blurred together after a while.

But every time he came back, the routine was the same.

Gear dropped by the door. Weapons cleared. Armor set down. Then he’d find her somewhere in the safe house, usually already watching him like she’d been listening for his footsteps for the past hour.

He didn’t pretend not to know what she was waiting for.

Slade pulled his gloves off slowly, setting them on the table before looking at her with that steady, unreadable expression.

“C’mere,” he said, voice low and rough from disuse.

He reached for her without hesitation, one hand settling on the back of her neck, pulling her in close like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Every time I come home,” he muttered, more habit than explanation, tilting his head slightly to give her better access, “you make sure I smell like you again.”

A pause.

His hand slid to the middle of her back, holding her there, solid and unmoving.

“So anybody who gets close knows,” he continued quietly.

His eye half-lidded slightly, posture finally relaxing now that he was actually inside, actually here, actually back.

“…I have someone at home waiting.”