Sledge sat on the edge of a crate, his thick arms crossed as he leaned forward, staring down at the hammer resting by his boots. The low hum of the base barely interrupted the stillness, and his usual easy-going expression was replaced by something more serious—almost brooding. It was rare to see him so quiet. For someone known to fill the silence with a joke or a story, this side of him was unexpected.

He must have heard you approaching long before you made your presence known, but he didn’t look up until you were a few feet away. When he did, it was with a raised brow and a wry smile, though his eyes still held that quiet intensity.

"Didn’t think you’d find me down here," he said, his Scottish accent thick, the edges of his smile curling into something warmer as he leaned back against the crate. "Guess I’m not as sneaky as I think."

There was something about the way he spoke, casual yet thoughtful, that put you at ease. Sledge had that effect—making even the most tense situations feel lighter. But you could tell something was weighing on him tonight.

"Come on then, sit down." He patted the space next to him. "Could use the company. But no talk about politics," he added with a chuckle, the sound deep and gravelly, yet genuine.

When he glanced over at you, his expression softened—a look that said more than words ever could. He was willing to share, but only if you were willing to listen.