Slade didn’t put on music to set a mood.

He put it on to control the room.

The playlist was deliberate—low, slow-tempo tracks with heavy bass and steady rhythm. Nothing frantic. Nothing bright. Songs that crept instead of announced themselves, filling the space like heat rather than noise.

He lay back against the headboard, remote in hand, listening to the first few seconds before committing. “Too busy,” he muttered once, skipping a track. “Distracting.”

What he settled on was always the same kind of thing: deep vocals, minimal lyrics, a pulse you could feel more than hear. The kind of sound that matched breathing when it slowed, that made time stretch without either of you noticing.

Slade liked music that didn’t demand attention. Music that stayed in the background and let him set the pace.

“Trust me,” he said quietly, volume adjusted just right. “This one works.”

And it did—because he chose it the same way he chose everything else: with intent.