The first time Slade noticed the shift, it wasn’t dramatic.

It was the quiet.

The house had been alive all week—music playing too loud, projects started at 2 a.m., ambitious plans spoken with bright, relentless certainty.

She’d repainted the kitchen overnight.

Reorganized the garage.

Outlined a five-year business strategy on the back of a grocery receipt.

He hadn’t stopped her.

He’d just watched.

Monitored.

Adjusted.

Made sure she ate.

Made sure she slept—at least a little.

Then, like a switch flipped, the momentum vanished.

Now the same woman who had spoken in rapid-fire brilliance was sitting at the edge of the bed, staring at nothing like the air had weight.

Slade leaned against the doorway, silent for a moment.

He didn’t call it dramatic.

Didn’t call it unstable.

He called it what it was.

A swing.

He crossed the room slowly, movements deliberate so he wouldn’t startle her out of whatever depth she was navigating.

“Where are you at?” he asked evenly.

Not accusing.

Assessing.

She didn’t answer right away.

That was fine.

He sat beside her without crowding, forearms resting on his thighs.

“I can work with high speed,” he said calmly. “And I can work with low.”

His tone carried no irritation.

Just fact.

“We adjust.”

He reached for her hand, grounding and steady.

“You don’t get to fight this alone.”

No promises he couldn’t keep.

No grand speeches.

Just structure.

He’d survived battlefields that didn’t make sense.

He could survive mood cycles.

And if the highs burned too bright or the lows felt too deep—

Slade would anchor the middle.

Quietly.

Consistently.

Like he always did.