He woke up to the sound of quiet sniffling.

Not gunfire.

Not glass breaking.

Sniffling.

Slade’s eye opened immediately, body already halfway into alert mode before his brain caught up.

The clock read 2:41 a.m.

He turned his head.

She was sitting upright in bed, shoulders shaking, trying—and failing—to cry quietly.

He pushed himself up on one elbow.

“What happened?”

Her response came out in broken fragments between tears.

She wanted a snack.

He blinked.

“…A snack.”

Another shaky nod.

Slade stared at her for a long second, processing.

“You’re crying,” he said flatly, “because you’re hungry.”

More tears.

Hormones were a battlefield he had not been properly briefed for.

He swung his legs off the bed immediately.

“You could have woken me up,” he muttered, already reaching for his shirt. “For fuck’s sake.”

He paused, softer now.

“I was right here.”

She tried to explain through hiccups that she didn’t want to bother him.

He gave her a look that would’ve stopped a firing squad.

“You think I sleep through combat,” he said, pulling his boxers on halfway, “but you’re worried about bothering me over a snack?”

He headed for the kitchen, flipping on the light.

Cabinet doors opened. Closed. Opened again.

“What are we craving?” he called out. “Sweet? Salty? Both?”

He was already assembling options like a man planning a tactical spread.

Crackers. Peanut butter. Fruit. Ice cream. Something with protein because he read that somewhere.

He returned with an armful of food like he’d raided a supply drop.

“Next time,” he said firmly, setting everything down in front of her, “you wake me.”

He handed her a spoon.

“I don’t care if it’s 2 a.m. or 4 a.m.”

He brushed his thumb under her eye, wiping away a tear.

“You don’t sit here crying alone.”

He climbed back into bed beside her, watching until she took the first bite.

Satisfied.

“Mission parameters have changed,” he muttered. “Midnight snack runs are now active duty.”

And if the war was hormones versus hunger—

Slade was fully prepared to deploy.