Catherine hesitated before taking the journal, flipping it open, running her fingers over the empty pages. "And what, exactly, am I supposed to do with this?"
Sloane shrugged. "Fill it with something that isn’t hospital notes. Thoughts, doodles, doesn’t matter."
Catherine closed the journal, giving her a measured look. "You assume I have anything to say."
Sloane’s smile softened, but there was something deeper behind it, something warm and certain. "I don’t assume. I know."
Catherine looked away, her jaw tightening slightly, but she didn’t give the journal back. Instead, she slipped it into her coat pocket.
Sloane didn’t say anything, just watched her with a quiet satisfaction before nodding toward the waterfront. "Come on."
They walked in silence for a while, the city stretching out in front of them, the sounds of the market fading behind them. The sun had started to set, casting the water in deep oranges and soft pinks.
Catherine sat on the edge of a stone bench, staring out over the river, her expression unreadable.
Sloane sat beside her, close but not touching.
"You keep looking at me like you’re trying to figure something out," Catherine murmured after a long moment.
Sloane tilted her head. "Iamtrying to figure something out."
Catherine let out a small breath, almost a laugh, but not quite. "And?"
Sloane studied her, letting the moment stretch between them. "I think you’re afraid of being happy."
Catherine’s head snapped toward her, something flickering across her face, something Sloane wasn’t sure she was meant to see.
But just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone, buried under a carefully constructed wall of indifference.
"You’re assuming a lot tonight," Catherine said evenly.
Sloane smirked. "Yeah, well. I’m usually right."
Catherine shook her head, standing abruptly. "I should go."
And just like that, the moment was gone.
Sloane leaned back against the bench and watched her, feeling the shift, the way Catherine was already pulling away.
"Did I imagine it?" Sloane asked, her voice quiet.
Catherine stilled.
Sloane stood, stepping in just close enough that she could see the way Catherine’s breath hitched and the way her shoulders tensed.
"You keep running, Catherine," she murmured, "but I know you felt it too."
Catherine’s lips tightened into a thin line. "Goodnight, Sloane."
And then she walked away, leaving Sloane staring after her, wondering just how long she was willing to chase before Catherine finally turned around.
9
CATHERINE
The hospital was the one place where Catherine Harrington never faltered. Here, precision was everything. There was no room for hesitation, no space for second-guessing. Work had always been her refuge, the one thing she could control in a life that had taught her that emotions were weaknesses and attachment was dangerous.
So why the hell couldn’t she focus?
