Mornings with Slade were quiet. Not the peaceful kind of quiet—more like the kind where two highly trained operatives silently acknowledge that neither of them are morning people and proceed accordingly.

The coffee was strong, the news was on low, and the only real movement in the kitchen was the occasional passing of a file or a silent exchange of food. You were at the table, scanning through reports, while Slade stood at the counter, sipping his coffee like it was the only thing tethering him to the waking world.

A mission briefing sat between you. Last night’s work had been messy—new players in town, someone stupid enough to think they could move through your territory unnoticed. Slade flipped through the intel at a slow, deliberate pace, barely sparing a glance at his burnt toast before pushing it aside.

You nudged a plate in his direction—his actual breakfast, the one you made after he insisted he could handle it himself. He huffed but didn’t argue, picking up the fork without looking at you. A rare, silent acknowledgment.

The morning news droned on in the background, talking about an “unidentified mercenary” involved in last night’s events. Slade smirked at the vague description, like he almost wanted to correct them.

You slid another file his way. Names, locations, a few security details you’d managed to pull overnight. His eye flicked over the information before he leaned back in his chair, assessing.

“You sleep?” His voice, rough from disuse, barely broke the silence.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. He exhaled through his nose, then—without a word—pushed his coffee toward you.

And that was that.

Another morning. Another day of planning, hunting, waiting. Quiet, calculated, inevitable.

Just the way Slade liked it.