Catherine inhaled deeply before speaking. “I assume you’re not breaking into your own gallery.”
Sloane stilled for only a fraction of a second before turning, that familiar, slow-burning grin creeping across her lips.
“Dr. Harrington,” she drawled, as if Catherine’s presence wasn’t the exact thing she had been waiting for. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Catherine lifted the note from her pocket, unfolding it carefully. “Your invitation was rather…insistent.”
Sloane wiped her hands on a rag, watching her with an unreadable expression. “I like to think of it as encouragement.”
Catherine hummed, stepping further into the space, her eyes flickering over the canvases leaning against the walls. The colors were bold, reckless, and full of movement. They looked like emotions had been poured onto them.
And then she spotted a piece set apart from the others, barely illuminated by the golden glow of the nearest light.
It wasn’t a portrait, not exactly. But it was her.
The long, sweeping lines of the figure were unmistakable. She recognized the curve of her own jaw, the arch of her neck, the tension in her hands that had spent a lifetime holding onto control. It was the feeling of herself, captured in brushstrokes and smudged charcoal.
Catherine swallowed, her pulse a steady thrum against her ribs.
Sloane stepped beside her, quiet for a moment before saying softly, “I didn’t mean to paint you.”
Catherine turned, eyes searching hers.
Sloane tilted her head, lips curving into something softer, something almost vulnerable. “But there you were, in every brushstroke.”
Catherine’s breath hitched. It was too much, too exposed, the truth of it pressing against the edges of everything she had spent years fortifying.
And yet, she didn’t walk away.
Sloane’s gaze held hers, steady, waiting. “Tell me you don’t feel it, Catherine.”
Catherine’s fingers curled into fists at her sides, every muscle wound tight.
There was no escape from this, not when Sloane was standing so close, not when her words were wrapping around Catherine like silk, not when her own body was betraying her with the need to close the last inch of space between them.
Sloane wasn’t going to move first. Not this time.
The realization sent something sharp through Catherine’s chest, something terrifying and exhilarating all at once.
This was her choice.
Her move.
She inhaled slowly, then reached out.
Her fingers brushed against Sloane’s jaw, tilting her chin up just enough to meet her gaze.
And then, without hesitation, Catherine closed the distance and kissed her.
The moment Catherine kissed her, something inside her shifted. It wasn’t frantic like before, nor was it fueled by the desperate need to escape herself. It was slower, deeper, something she couldn’t name but felt in every nerve of her body.
Her hands curled into the fabric of Sloane’s shirt, pulling her closer, but there was no force behind it, just a quiet surrender.
Sloane reached for Catherine’s hand, threading their fingers together, a silent question lingering between them.
Catherine didn’t pull away.
She let Sloane guide her through the dimly lit gallery, through the back entrance, up the narrow stairs to the loft above.
