The shot was meant for her.

Slade knew it the second he saw the muzzle flash.

He moved without thinking.

Impact.

It felt like a sledgehammer to the ribs, armor catching most of it but not all. The force drove him back a step, breath punching out of his lungs.

She cleared the shooter before he fully steadied.

Efficient. Controlled. Furious.

By the time they reached the safehouse, he was already peeling off damaged gear like it was a minor inconvenience.

“It’s a graze,” he muttered, though blood said otherwise.

She shoved him down into a chair.

Slade allowed it.

That was the first sign he wasn’t as fine as he claimed.

He watched her move around the room—gathering supplies, hands steady but jaw tight. The same woman who’d just ended a threat without blinking was now glaring at him like he’d personally offended her by bleeding.

“You’re hovering,” he observed.

She pressed gauze to his side harder than necessary.

He hissed, then smirked.

“Worth it.”

She didn’t appreciate that.

He leaned back, letting her work. Letting her clean the wound, tape the bandage, check it twice.

Her fingers were careful.

Protective.

Slade studied her face instead of the pain.

“Relax,” he said quietly. “Takes more than that to drop me.”

She finished wrapping his ribs and stepped back to assess.

He reached out, catching her wrist before she could move away.

“I’d do it again,” he added, eye steady on hers.

No hesitation.

Because taking a hit was simple.

Letting her fuss over him afterward?

That was new.

And as she adjusted the bandage one last time, hands lingering just a second longer than necessary—

Slade exhaled slowly.

“…Damn,” he muttered, almost amused. “Life’s good.”

Gunfire. Bruises. A little blood.

And her hands on him, making sure he stayed breathing.

Yeah.

He’d take that trade.