Slade did not do “a minute.”

He did precise arrival times. Calculated routes. Tactical efficiency.

So when his phone buzzed at 2:13 a.m. and he answered on the third ring, voice thick with sleep—

“…Yeah.”

A pause.

Then he sighed, dragging a hand down his face.

“Mm. Okay, baby,” he muttered, a yawn cutting through the edge in his tone. “Wait at the bus stop. I’ll be there in a minute.”

He was already sitting up before the call ended.

Three minutes later, boots on. Keys in hand. Engine turning over.

By the time he pulled up, the street was quiet. Too quiet. Streetlight flickering overhead.

She was exactly where she said she’d be.

Slade stepped out of the truck, jacket already shrugging off his shoulders as he approached.

“You couldn’t call earlier?” he grumbled, draping it around her anyway. “You know I don’t like you standing out here.”

He glanced down the street once, twice—habit.

Then opened the passenger door.

“Next time,” he added, softer now, “you don’t wait alone.”

The yawn was gone.

Replaced with something steadier.

Because Slade might pretend he’s inconvenienced—

But the second she calls?

He’s already on the way.