Slade knew exactly how far to push.

He leaned in just enough to make your breath hitch, close enough that his presence crowded your thoughts before it ever touched your skin. He didn’t rush it. He never rushed it.

“Easy,” he murmured, voice low, steady. “I’ve got you.”

His fingers brushed your wrist—brief, deliberate—then withdrew, leaving the sensation behind like a question your body answered before your brain could. Slade watched the reaction with quiet satisfaction.

“You like it when I do this,” he said calmly, like an observation rather than a boast. “When I take my time. When I make you think you’re the one unraveling yourself.”

He shifted, circling, voice following you instead of his body. “I don’t break things,” he continued. “I loosen them. Let them fall apart the way they’re already trying to.”

Another pause. Intentional.

“You’re still in control,” Slade said. “You just don’t need it right now.”

The tension coiled tight—heat, anticipation, awareness sharpening instead of dulling. He let it sit there, unspent, because that was the point.

Slade Wilson didn’t overwhelm you.

He guided you—right up to the edge you trusted him to stop at.

And every time, he left you wanting more.