7
CATHERINE
The rhythmic beep of a monitor threaded through the hospital’s muted rhythm, steadying Catherine in the familiar order of her world. The fluorescent lights cast a sharp clarity over every corner, from the gleaming steel of medical carts to the crisp lines of patient charts. Catherine moved briskly down the hallway, clipboard in hand, her posture ramrod straight and her heels clicking a staccato tempo against the polished floor. This was her sanctuary.
But no amount of routine could quiet the nagging pull at the edges of her mind. It was there in every quiet moment, every pause between decisions: Sloane.
The memory of her kiss lingered like a quiet ache, impossible to ignore. The warmth of it, the audacity, the way it had unmoored something in Catherine she hadn’t realized was so tightly anchored. She caught her reflection in the brushed steel panel of a supply cabinet as she passed, and saw her cheeks faintly flush. Her lips pressed into a firm line.
“Ridiculous,” she muttered under her breath, shaking her head as she redirected her focus to the chart in her hands.
“Dr. Harrington?”
The voice startled her, though she would never let it show. She turned, her sharp blue eyes landing on Dr. Greene, one of the newer residents. He held a clipboard of his own, his expression a careful mix of eagerness and hesitation.
“What is it, Dr. Greene?” Catherine’s tone was clipped but not unkind.
“I- I wanted to go over the post-op plan for Mr. Kline,” he stammered, glancing down at his notes as if they might shield him from her intensity.
Catherine extended her hand, and he passed her the clipboard. She scanned the details, her brow furrowing slightly as her pen moved to underline a note.
Her mind drifted again to Sloane’s hot welcoming mouth against her own. And she wondered if she dare let herself explore it further.
Catherine stepped into the break room, craving a moment to collect her thoughts. The room was as stark and utilitarian as the rest of the hospital, with its beige walls and rows of neatly stacked coffee mugs. She moved to the counter and poured herself a cup of coffee, watching the dark liquid swirl. It was a small ritual, one of the few moments in her day where she allowed herself even a fraction of stillness.
Her gaze drifted to the corner of the counter, where a crisp white envelope lay. Her name was scrawled across it in messy handwriting, the ink slightly smudged. She frowned, setting her coffee down as she picked up the envelope, turning it over in her hands before carefully unfolding the paper inside.
Dr. Harrington,
I promised something real, didn’t I? Come to my studio tonight. Let’s see what you’re afraid of.
—Sloane
Her pulse quickened, a sharp contrast to the steady rhythm she prided herself on. The handwriting was exactly what she’d come to expect from Sloane: careless, bold, and unapologetically confident.
Catherine folded the note sharply, her movements deliberate, and set it back on the counter as though distance could dull the impact.
“Unbelievable,” she muttered, taking a long sip of her coffee.
But the note lingered in her mind, its audacity and playful challenge irritating her as much as it intrigued her. She stared at the cup in her hands, watching the steam rise, and told herself to let it go.
By the time her shift ended, the envelope sat in her bag, tucked between patient notes and administrative reports. Catherine told herself it was there because she hadn’t had time to throw it away, but the truth was harder to admit. She hadn’t thrown it away because she couldn’t.
Back in her office, she leaned against her desk and pulled the note from her bag. The words stared back at her, daring her in Sloane’s unmistakable voice.
“She’s testing me,” Catherine said aloud, the sound of her own voice breaking the heavy silence of the room. “She wants me to react.”
Her fingers tightened around the paper, and for a moment, she considered crumpling it into the wastebasket. But the idea of Sloane waiting—her expectation, her confidence—it gnawed at Catherine in a way she couldn’t ignore.
Could she do it? It had been so long since she had sex with anyone, but surely it would all come back to her? Right?
She straightened, slipping the note back into her bag with a decisive motion. “One night,” she told herself. “Just to satisfy my curiosity.”
The thought settled uneasily in her chest, but as she grabbed her coat and stepped into the cool evening air, she realized it wasn’t curiosity driving her. It was something far more dangerous.
Catherine’s heels clicked against the concrete floor as she climbed the narrow staircase, the sound sharp and deliberate in the quiet building. The air shifted as she approached the door, a faint scent of paint and turpentine growing stronger with each step. When she knocked, the wood felt rough beneath her knuckles, and she wondered, briefly, absurdly, if she should have brought something. A bottle of wine? A reason to leave?
The door swung open, and Sloane stood there, her usual easy smile lighting up her face. She wore a paint-streaked button down shirt that hung loosely over her frame, her curls pulled back into a messy scarf. The smell of paint was stronger now, mingling with something faintly floral. Jasmine, maybe. Catherine was drawn to the warmth in her hazel eyes. She was drawn to the loose curls that had escaped the scarf. And she was also drawn, she had to admit to herself, to Sloane’s ample cleavage between the buttons. They were undone just enough to draw the eye Catherine noted. It felt good to let herself look for once, to let herself want something for once.
