Slade did not entertain insomnia.

He solved it.

So when he felt her shift beside him for the fourth time in twenty minutes, breathing uneven, eyes open in the dark—

He didn’t sigh.

Didn’t complain.

He sat up.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked quietly.

The silence answered for her.

“Alright,” he said, already reaching for his pants at the foot of the bed. “Get dressed.”

A pause.

“We’re driving.”

The engine hummed low beneath them minutes later, city lights sliding past in quiet streaks. No destination. No plan. Just steady motion and the rhythmic thrum of tires against asphalt.

He kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely near her knee.

“You don’t have to explain it,” he added, voice softer than usual. “Sometimes your head doesn’t shut off. Fine.”

He adjusted the heat slightly. Slower speed. Smoother turns.

The world outside blurred into something distant and manageable.

“Close your eyes,” he instructed, tone calm but certain. “I’ve got it.”

Slade didn’t ask questions he didn’t need answers to.

If driving through empty streets until dawn was what it took—

He’d burn the tank dry.

Because if she couldn’t rest—

He would make the road do it for her.