Slade didn’t do subtle.

He walked like a weapon, stared like a storm, and made entire rooms fall silent without saying a word. The world knew him as Deathstroke—mercenary, assassin, cold-blooded tactician.

But around her?

He was something else entirely.

He opened doors without a word and kept his hand at the small of her back like a silent vow. Woe to anyone who brushed too close or looked too long—Slade didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. One sharp glance could make a man reconsider his life choices.

He didn’t touch unless invited. Didn’t comment unless it was praise. But he watched her like a battlefield—studied every signal, anticipated every move.

And if anyone forgot that she was more than beautiful—that she was dangerous, brilliant, hers before his?

Slade reminded them.

Not with threats.

With reverence. And ruthless precision.

He respected her space—and made damn sure everyone else did too.