Slade stopped mid-step.

“…You’re still dating?”

He set the bag down a little too carefully, eyes narrowing like he was reassessing a threat matrix that should’ve been retired years ago. “I thought we agreed you were done with that,” he said, incredulous. “You survived one marriage. That should count as a full career.”

He paced once, rubbing his jaw. “Okay—no. Let’s rewind. How long has this been happening?” A beat. “Actually, don’t answer that. I don’t need timestamps.”

Slade glanced toward the door, already mentally cataloging exits, vehicles, sightlines. “Does he know where you live?” he asked flatly. “Because that’s relevant.”

Another pause. His shoulders dropped a fraction, then squared right back up. “I’m not saying you can’t date,” he clarified, immediately contradicting the tone of everything about him. “I’m saying the bar is high. Astronomical, actually.”

He sighed, long-suffering. “Does he recycle? Does he return shopping carts? Does he raise his voice when he’s wrong?” A beat. “Strike one if he does.”

Slade pinched the bridge of his nose. “Unbelievable,” he muttered. “I leave town for a little while and suddenly there’s… candidates.”

He straightened, resolve settling in. “Fine. You date,” he said. “I observe. Quietly.” Another beat. “…Mostly.”

His mouth twitched despite himself. “You deserve to be happy,” he added, softer. Then, immediately gruffer: “But if he makes you uncomfortable even once, I’m ending it.”

Slade grabbed his jacket, already moving. “I’ll be nearby,” he said. “Just in case.”

Because some threats didn’t wear uniforms.

And Slade never stopped watching.