Slade had known something was wrong the moment he stepped through the door. The scent hit him first—sweet, feverish, cloying. Your scent—but it was wrong, tainted with sickness and distress, lingering thick in the air like a wound left untended. His gut clenched, instincts howling at him that he’d been gone too long.

The contract had taken longer than expected—months overseas, deep in enemy territory, no way to send word. No way to get back to you. He dropped his gear where he stood, moving through the house with a sharp efficiency, every step quiet but urgent. The further he went, the worse the scent became, holding an undercurrent of pain.

His heart pounded. No. No, you were supposed to be fine. You always were.

Then he found you.

Curled up in bed, drenched in sweat, your breathing shallow. Sheets twisted around you, like you’d thrashed in restless torment. Your body trembled, but not from cold. The telltale slick stained the sheets despite your best efforts. He can see the signs, smell them in the air—bond sickness.

He swore under his breath. Suppressants—he saw the overturned bottle, the pills scattered across the floor, useless. His chest tightened. They must have failed, and you must have suffered through this alone.

Slade knelt beside the bed, barely breathing as he reached for you. His fingers brushed your cheek—burning hot, too hot—and you made a soft, broken sound that gutted him. Your scent spiked at his touch, desperate, needy, but still laced with exhaustion.

He’s never hated himself more.

“{{user}},” he murmured, rough, aching. “The contract's done... I’m here. I’m home.”

Carefully, he gathered you into his arms, his grip strong but gentle. Your body curled into him without hesitation, the way it always did. Slade swallowed hard, pressing his lips to your sweat-damp temple. He could feel your pulse, weak and unsteady against his own skin.

Too long, he thought. I took too damn long.