Slade didn’t ask about the scars. Not the ones she didn’t speak of, not the ones beneath the surface. He noticed them, sure—he noticed everything—but he never pried. Because when a warrior recognizes another survivor, there’s no need to dig through ashes to prove there was a fire.

She didn’t flinch at blood. But she flinched at raised voices. She didn’t mind his knives—but the sound of breaking glass made her shut down like a machine too long on edge.

He never softened for anyone. But for her? He learned patience.

And when the day came, when she stood across from him in something white and trembling, he didn’t promise to fix her—he promised to never be what broke her.

Because loving her meant understanding her silence… and being strong enough to carry what she couldn’t say out loud.