Slade didn’t marry a housewife.

He married a woman with fire in her spine, a mind like a blade, and hands that could steady a rifle or shatter a man’s jaw without blinking. But somewhere between the quiet mornings, folded laundry, and endless lists of “shoulds,” that fire had dimmed—buried under routine and resignation.

He saw it in her eyes. The way they drifted to the window when she thought he wasn’t looking. The way her smile didn’t quite reach the corners anymore.

So he handed her a gun.

Not as a threat. As a reminder.

Of who she was before the world told her to shrink.

And when her fingers closed around it, something old sparked awake. Dangerous. Beautiful.

Slade smiled.

The world had forgotten what she could do. It was time to remind them.