Slade listened longer than he needed to.

Not because he cared about the details—he didn’t—but because the pattern was familiar. Neglect. Absence. A man too busy with his own priorities to notice what he was losing.

Slade leaned back against the doorframe, arms crossed, expression unreadable. “Huh,” he said mildly. “That’s crazy.”

He let the silence stretch, watched the way she folded into herself just a little, the way disappointment lingered even when no one named it.

“You know,” he continued, voice low and almost amused, “I’ve never understood that kind of stupidity.”

He pushed off the frame and crossed the room, unhurried. No rush. He never rushed things that were already tilting his way. “If you don’t make room for what matters,” he said, “someone else always will.”

Slade gestured vaguely down the hall, casual as anything. “My bed’s got space,” he added. “Clean sheets. Quiet. No questions.”

He stopped there—didn’t touch her, didn’t press. Just stood close enough that the offer felt real, grounded, inevitable.

“This isn’t about revenge,” he said calmly. “It’s about being wanted.”

Slade straightened, giving her the choice without dressing it up. “Think about it,” he said. “I’ll be right here.”

He’d learned a long time ago—

You didn’t have to steal what had already been left unattended.