“You came,” Sloane said, leaning against the doorframe as though Catherine’s arrival was the most natural thing in the world.
Catherine tilted her head, her expression cool. “Was I not supposed to?”
“Oh, I figured you’d find a reason not to,” Sloane teased, stepping aside to let her in. “Too chaotic, too messy, doesn’t fit the plan.”
“I like to surprise people,” Catherine replied, her voice crisp even though she was trying to be less frosty, it was though her words hadn’t gotten the memo.
Sloane’s studio was unlike anything Catherine had expected, and exactly what she should have anticipated. The room was expansive but crowded, a riot of color and texture that assaulted the senses in the best way. Canvases of every size leaned against the walls, some framed and others left raw, their surfaces splashed with bold, unrestrained strokes of paint. Brushes sat haphazardly in jars, their bristles stiff with dried pigment. Palettes, some fresh and others abandoned mid-use, were scattered across the workbenches.
The floor was a mosaic of paint splatters, a kaleidoscope of color that spoke of years of creative frenzy. Overhead, strings of Edison bulbs cast a warm, golden glow, their light catching on the reflective surfaces of half-finished sculptures and metal easels.
Catherine paused just inside, her gaze sweeping over the organized chaos. “It’s…a lot,” she said finally.
Sloane laughed, the sound warm and unguarded as she closed the door behind her. “It’s home. And don’t worry, Dr. Harrington, chaos doesn’t bite.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Catherine replied, her tone tentative. She stepped further inside, her heels sinking slightly into the paint-streaked floor. “Do you ever finish anything?”
“Not everything’s meant to be finished,” Sloane said, moving ahead of her. She gestured broadly at the room. “Sometimes,it’s just about the process—the mess, the feeling, what happens when you let go.”
“That sounds inefficient,” Catherine replied dryly, but there was a flicker of intrigue in her gaze as she studied a particularly vibrant canvas propped against the wall.
Sloane grinned. “You’re curious.”
Catherine raised an eyebrow, folding her arms. “I don’t know if ‘curious’ is the right word.”
“Sure it is,” Sloane said, stepping closer. Her eyes sparkled with playful intent as she reached for a clean brush from a nearby jar. “And lucky for you, curiosity is all you need tonight.”
“I don’t paint,” Catherine said automatically, her tone firm.
“You do tonight,” Sloane countered, holding out the brush.
Catherine hesitated, her gaze flicking between the brush and Sloane’s face. “This is ridiculous.”
“Exactly,” Sloane said, her grin widening. “And you’re here anyway.”
Catherine sighed, the sound edged with exasperation, but she didn’t move away. “Fine,” she said finally. “But don’t expect anything groundbreaking.”
“I never do,” Sloane replied, her voice softening as she stepped closer, her hand brushing lightly against Catherine’s as she placed the brush in her palm. “That’s the point.”
Catherine held the brush as though it might bite, her grip awkward and uncertain, and Sloane moved behind her, guiding her toward a blank canvas setup in the corner of the room.
“Here,” Sloane said, her voice low and coaxing. “Don’t think about it. Just move.”
She reached around Catherine, her hands warm as they closed gently over hers, guiding the brush to the canvas. Catherine stiffened at the proximity, her instinct to retreat battling with the strange thrill of the moment.
“You’re overthinking,” Sloane murmured, her breath warm against Catherine’s ear. “Relax. Feel it.”
“I don’t do things halfway,” Catherine said, her voice quieter now, tinged with something she couldn’t quite name.
“Good,” Sloane said, her lips curving into a grin that Catherine could hear in her voice. “Then don’t.”
They moved together, the brush sliding across the canvas in bold, uneven strokes. Catherine’s hands remained stiff at first, but as Sloane’s warmth surrounded her, she felt herself beginning to let go, just slightly. The paint smeared in erratic patterns, streaks of crimson and gold blending into a chaotic swirl.
“This is…messy,” Catherine said, her voice laced with both frustration and fascination.
“Messy is good,” Sloane replied. “Messy is real.”
Their movements slowed, the brush stilling as Sloane leaned closer. Catherine’s pulse quickened, the space between them taut as a held breath.
