Because for the first time, she didn’t want to run.
10
SLOANE
The morning light slipped through the tall windows like a secret, spilling golden across the floorboards and casting long shadows over half-finished canvases and open jars of paint. The studio was quiet, still breathing in the hush of dawn, and for once, Sloane didn’t mind the silence.
She lay half-covered in the sheets, her limbs tangled loosely in warmth and the delicious ache of the night before. At first, she thought maybe she’d imagined Catherine’s presence, her softness, the way she’d given in not just with her body but with something far more guarded. But when Sloane shifted, turning onto her side, there she was.
Still here.
Still sleeping.
And god, she was beautiful like this.
The light hit her just right, illuminating the line of her bare shoulder, the delicate rise and fall of her breathing. Her hair was a little wild from sleep and sex, glossy brown strands spilling onto the pillow, framing her face in a way that made Sloane ache. She looked…human. Soft. Not the woman who shut down conversation with a glance or wore her control like a uniform.
Sloane didn’t move, didn’t speak. She just watched for a moment, trying to memorize the exact curve of Catherine’s spine, the way her brow softened when she was truly at rest.
It felt like holding something sacred.
Catherine stirred with a quiet sigh, her brow furrowing slightly before she shifted closer, her hand drifting across the sheets and brushing against Sloane’s arm. Not fully awake yet, but instinctively reaching for her.
It was the kind of unconscious intimacy Sloane wasn’t used to, certainly not from Catherine.
Slaone smiled, soft and slow, leaning in to murmur near her ear. “Didn’t take you for the type to stay.”
Catherine made a vague sound in her throat, something between a scoff and a hum, and Sloane could feel the moment her body caught up to her brain. Her fingers paused, and her muscles tensed just slightly.
But then she blinked open her eyes and didn’t move or get up.
She just looked at Sloane, her gaze bleary but alert, her mouth opening slightly like she might speak, then choosing not to.
Sloane cocked her head. “Morning, Doctor Ice Queen.”
Catherine rolled onto her back, letting out a soft breath as her eyes drifted up to the ceiling. “You’re entirely too awake.”
“Mm.” Sloane turned onto her side, propping her head on her hand. “And you’re entirely too still here.”
Catherine’s lips twitched into something dangerously close to a smirk. “Should I be gone?”
Sloane leaned closer, dragging a finger lazily across Catherine’s stomach, just where the sheet clung to her waist. “Depends. Are you planning on disappearing again?”
Catherine looked at her, not with ice, but with something careful. “Not today.”
That, more than anything, sent a thrum of heat through Sloane’s chest. “Well,” she said, sitting up slightly, “in that case…”
She threw the sheet off her own body and stretched, naked and unapologetic, the morning air cool against her skin. Catherine’s eyes flicked toward her, but she didn’t speak, only watched, her jaw tight, like she was thinking something she wasn’t quite ready to say.
Sloane caught the look and grinned. “You’re staring.”
“You’re stretching,” Catherine deadpanned, though her gaze lingered.
Sloane turned, drawing the sheet back over herself and settling beside her again. “Don’t pretend you’re not enjoying the view. You know, I could paint you like this.”
Catherine arched a brow, the covers shifting as she moved. “Didn’t you already?”
Sloane gave a theatrical sigh, brushing her fingers lightly over the ridge of Catherine’s hip. “Those were impressions. Abstract suggestions. But this”—her hand flattened slightly, tracing upward toward her ribs, where the rise and fall of her breath had quickened—“this is detail work. This is brushstroke by brushstroke.”
