Sloane shifted just enough to prop herself on an elbow, her gaze drifting across Catherine’s body, the curve of her back, the sharp lines softened by shadows and breath. Her skin was flushed, streaked with fading colors, and glowed with something Sloane couldn’t quite name but recognized all the same. This wasn’t just post-sex desire. It was something deeper.
She dipped her fingertip into a spot of drying paint on the sheet and dragged it gently along the side of Catherine’s ribs, just beneath the edge of her breast.
“You’re a work of art,” Sloane murmured, the words landing softly in the quiet.
Catherine let out a breath through her nose and rolled her eyes, but didn’t move. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Sloane smiled and leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to her shoulder. “It’s true.”
Catherine didn’t argue this time. Her head was turned slightly to the side, her cheek against the pillow, her eyes half-closed, not in sleep, but something like peace. Her fingersmoved, lazy and slow, until they found their way across Sloane’s stomach, then higher, settling over her heart.
The touch wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t even intimate in the usual way. It was simple. Quiet. Trusting.
It undid Sloane more than any moan or kiss ever could.
She let herself lie back down, drawing her leg over Catherine’s, her body curving around hers with practiced ease. For once, she didn’t feel the need to talk, to charm, to fill the space with movement. The silence between them was full, good, the kind of silence that says stay without needing the word.
Sloane’s hand came to rest over Catherine’s. She gave it a gentle squeeze, but didn’t speak. Didn’t need to ruin it by asking what this meant. Not now.
Deep within her a little ball of hope dared to expand.
11
CATHERINE
The silence in her condo was sterile.
Catherine stirred beneath crisp, perfectly tucked sheets, the familiar weight of her comforter grounding her as sunlight slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The glass panes framed the city skyline like a painting, flawless and distant. Everything here was in its place. Everything was quiet.
Too quiet.
She sat up slowly, her spine straightening out of habit more than anything, her bare feet pressing to the cool wood floors. The bed hadn’t shifted through the night. There was no indent beside her. No trace of another body’s warmth lingering in the sheets.
Sloane was gone. No, not gone. She had never been here. Not in this space.
Catherine pulled on her robe, the silk sliding over her skin like armor. She moved through her home with familiar precision: blinds drawn halfway, thermostat checked, espresso machine hissing to life in the corner. The routine was seamless. Her hand reached for her favorite mug without hesitation, measured exactly one shot of espresso, added just the right amount of steamed milk, no foam.
It was muscle memory. Discipline. Control.
And it was lifeless.
She carried the mug to the kitchen island, setting it down with the same muted grace she applied to everything. Her phone buzzed on the counter. The screen lit up with a name she knew too well.
Sloane.
She didn’t open the message, didn’t need to see it to know the tone—warm, teasing, probably some flippant comment meant to mask sincerity. Catherine set the phone down face-first, hiding it from view as if the gesture could somehow press the woman back into the dark.
Her hand hovered over it for a moment longer than necessary.
No. No, she couldn’t afford that right now.
Instead, she crossed to the other side of the kitchen and began wiping down surfaces that didn’t need cleaning.
Her apartment was immaculate. Not a single pillow out of place, not a speck of dust on the mantle. The white and gray tones were neutral and curated. There were no canvases leaning against walls, no jars of paint, no tangled string lights or stray shirts left on the floor.
It was nothing like Sloane’s studio.
And this morning, it felt…wrong.
