Slade parked the car a block away, like he always did.

Old habit. Old caution. His sister noticed, of course—she always did—but she didn’t comment. She never did. She just adjusted her jacket and walked beside him up the familiar path, matching his stride without trying to soften it.

The house looked the same. White trim. Slightly crooked mailbox. Curtains his mother refused to replace. Slade paused on the porch, scanning out of reflex, then exhaled through his nose.

“Still standing,” he muttered. “That’s a good sign.”

Inside was warmth. Familiar clutter. The quiet kind of life that didn’t announce itself. Their mother looked up from her chair, eyes brightening in that way that cut through Slade’s armor faster than bullets ever had.

He leaned down to kiss her cheek, careful, gentle. “Hey, Ma. Brought backup this time.”

His sister hovered close, already checking small things—temperature in the room, glass of water within reach, the way their mother’s shoulders sat today. Slade clocked it all without comment. Teamwork. Same as it had always been.

He moved through the house like muscle memory made flesh. Fixed a cabinet hinge. Replaced a lightbulb. Adjusted the lock on the back door while his sister settled into the rhythm of being home, presence steady and grounding.

Slade glanced between them once, something unreadable crossing his face. “You know,” he said quietly, “most people don’t get this.”

He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t need to.

They sat together after—close, unguarded, the dangerous parts of him set carefully aside at the threshold. Slade stayed alert out of instinct, but it was a softer kind of vigilance now. The kind that listened for laughter instead of threats.

Whatever names the world had for Slade, whatever blood he’d spilled or contracts he’d fulfilled—

Here, he was just a son.

And beside him, his sister fit into the space like she always had.

Perfectly.