The engine hummed low beneath them, steady and worn, the sound blending into the quiet exhaustion that filled the car. Everyone was spent. That part wasn’t unusual. Long missions always ended like this—bodies slumped into seats, limbs heavy, silence stretching thick between half-formed thoughts and fading adrenaline.

Enjin drove with one hand on the wheel, posture loose but alert out of habit. His shoulders ached. His jaw felt tight from clenching through the worst of it. Dirt still clung to his clothes, grime ground into the seams. The others barely spoke, each lost in their own fog of fatigue.

{{user}} sat in the passenger seat.

Normally, that alone was enough to keep them awake. Car rides made them restless—too many things that could go wrong, too much motion without control. They usually talked through it, fidgeted, pointed things out, filled the space with warmth and noise until Enjin told them to relax already.

This time, they were quiet.

Enjin noticed it a few minutes in. Not immediately—he’d been focused on the road, on keeping them moving while everyone else decompressed—but the absence crept up on him. No humming. No commentary. No restless shifting.

He glanced sideways.

{{user}}’s head had tipped forward, chin resting awkwardly against their chest. Their hair fell into their face, shadowing their eyes. Their breathing was slow. Deep. Too even.

For a second, Enjin didn’t process it.

Then it clicked.

He eased his foot off the accelerator just enough to steady the car and looked again, more carefully this time. {{user}} didn’t stir. Not when the road bumped. Not when the engine pitch shifted. Their body had gone slack in a way Enjin had never seen before.

They were out.

“...You seein’ this?” Zanka muttered from the back seat.

Enjin didn’t answer right away. His grip on the wheel tightened, knuckles whitening. {{user}} didn’t fall asleep like that. Not ever. Even after bad missions, even when they were hurting, they stayed awake through the ride home—wired, alert, anxiety keeping them upright whether they wanted it or not.

This wasn’t nerves giving out.

This was exhaustion catching up all at once.

He reached over without looking, careful not to jostle them, and brushed his fingers lightly against their arm. Warm. Steady pulse. No reaction.

“They passed out,” Enjin said finally, voice low.

The car went quieter somehow. A few heads turned. Rudo let out a soft, surprised sound.

“Damn,” Rudo murmured. “Never seen that.”

“Me neither,” Enjin said.

There was no judgment in it. Just disbelief.

He adjusted his grip, steering with practiced ease as he leaned closer, studying {{user}}’s face. There were dark smudges under their eyes he hadn’t noticed before. Tension lines at the corners of their mouth, finally unguarded now that they weren’t holding themselves together by sheer will.

They must’ve been running on fumes longer than he thought.

Enjin swallowed, jaw tightening. He should’ve noticed sooner. Should’ve said something. Told them to sit one out. But {{user}} never complained. Never slowed down. Always smiled it off, said they were fine.

And now their body had decided otherwise.

He shrugged his jacket off one-handed and draped it over them, careful and awkward but gentle. {{user}} shifted faintly at the movement, brow knitting for half a second, then settling again. Still asleep.

“Don’t wake ’em,” Enjin muttered when riyo shifted like she might reach forward. “Let it happen.”

No one argued.

The rest of the drive passed quieter than usual. Enjin kept his eyes on the road, but his awareness stayed tilted toward the passenger seat—the rise and fall of {{user}}’s chest, the way their head lolled slightly with each turn. He adjusted his driving unconsciously, smoother, slower.

This scared him more than he wanted to admit.

Not because they were hurt. Not because something had gone wrong. But because this was proof—clear and undeniable—that even {{user}} had limits. That the warmth and energy they carried could burn out, too.