Slade did not wake gently.

He woke decisively.

The alarm hadn’t even gone off yet when he rolled onto his side, already aware of the time, the schedule, the fact that they were running late.

She, however, was dead to the world.

He watched her for a second—peaceful, unmoving, absolutely unwilling to rejoin consciousness.

“…Not in the mood for this,” he muttered.

He leaned over and gave her a sharp, controlled swat.

“Wake up.”

No softness. No drawn-out coaxing.

Just command.

She groaned into the pillow.

He did it again—less force, more emphasis.

“We have thirty minutes,” he continued evenly. “Move.”

He was already out of bed by the time she blinked up at him, tossing her clothes onto the mattress with military precision.

“You’ve got five before I start escalating,” he warned, tugging on his shirt.

There was no real irritation in his tone.

Just urgency.

Slade didn’t believe in slow mornings.

And if a quick smack got results?

Efficient.