“There,” Sloane said softly, her voice a low murmur. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Catherine turned her head slightly, her gaze meeting Sloane’s. The intensity in Sloane’s warm hazel eyes caught her off guard, the teasing confidence tempered by something deeper, something raw and unspoken.
“I wouldn’t say that,” Catherine replied, her voice steady but her heart racing.
Sloane smiled, her lips curving in a way that made Catherine feel like the ground beneath her had shifted. “You’re full of surprises, Dr. Harrington.”
“And you’re insufferable,” Catherine said, but there was no heat in the words, only the faintest trace of a smile.
Sloane stepped back slightly, letting her hands fall away but keeping her gaze locked on Catherine’s. “Maybe,” she said, her voice soft but sure.
Catherine didn’t reply, her eyes drifting back to the canvas. The colors swirled together in a pattern she couldn’t quite define—chaotic and unrestrained. It wasn’t her world. But for the first time, she wasn’t sure if she wanted it to be.
Sloane turned her full attention to Catherine, the kind of gaze that felt like it could peel back layers. She stepped toward the far corner of the studio and selected a fresh, oversized canvas from a pile. It was stark white, its emptiness vibrating with possibility. She carried it to an easel and adjusted the angle, her movements unhurried but deliberate.
“You’re holding back,” Sloane said, her tone light but pointed. “I can see it in how you look at everything in here, like you’re calculating how much of a disaster it would be to clean.”
Catherine raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms. “It’s instinct. And order isn’t a flaw.”
Sloane grinned as she handed Catherine a different brush. “Not a flaw, maybe. But definitely a crutch.”
Catherine’s fingers curled reluctantly around the handle of the brush. “I’m not sure why I let you talk me into this.”
“Because you’re curious,” Sloane said, stepping closer. “And because deep down, you want to let go; you just don’t know how.”
Catherine rolled her eyes, but her grip tightened on the brush, betraying her calm composure. “That’s quite an assumption.”
“Call it intuition.” Sloane moved behind her, her voice dipping into a lower, more intimate register. “Come on. Let me show you.”
Before Catherine could protest, Sloane’s hands settled lightly over hers, warm and firm. The contact sent a jolt of awareness through Catherine, but she stayed still, her pulse quickening.
“Relax,” Sloane murmured, her breath close to Catherine’s ear. “You’re holding it like a scalpel.”
“It’s a habit,” Catherine replied, her voice quieter than she intended.
Sloane chuckled softly, the sound warm and rich. “Maybe it’s time to break it.”
With a gentle nudge, Sloane guided Catherine’s hand to the canvas, the brush bristling against the surface. The stroke was uneven, hesitant, but Sloane’s hands didn’t falter.
“See?” Sloane said, her tone encouraging. “You don’t have to think about it. Just feel.”
Catherine frowned, her instinct to argue battling with the pull of Sloane’s presence. The steady rhythm of their movements was oddly grounding, and she found herself easing into the sensation of the brush gliding across the canvas. Sloane stepped closer, her body aligning with Catherine’s as they worked together, the space between them vanishing.
“You’re overthinking again,” Sloane said, her voice softer now.
“I’m trying to make it look…”
“Don’t try,” Sloane interrupted, her hands pressing gently against Catherine’s. “Just do. Perfection isn’t the point.”
Catherine hesitated but let her hands move, following the rhythm Sloane set. The brush danced across the canvas, the streaks of paint becoming less precise, more instinctive.
“Better,” Sloane murmured, her approval sparking something unfamiliar in Catherine, something warm, almost addictive.
Their movements slowed, the painting taking shape in an unplanned, abstract way that felt strangely liberating. Sloane’shands lingered, her touch steady but light, and Catherine became acutely aware of how close they were.
“You’re good at this,” Sloane said, her voice low and teasing.
Catherine huffed a soft laugh. “I think that’s more you than me.”
