Sloane sat on the edge of her unmade bed, her legs bare, paint-splattered sweatpants twisted around her waist like she’d pulled them on in the dark. She stared at her phone, her thumb hovering over the screen, the familiar thread glowing with unread tension.
Catherine Harrington.
No replies.
Still.
Sloane sighed through her nose and locked the screen, tossing the phone onto the rumpled sheets beside her. It landed with a soft thud that echoed louder than it should’ve in the quiet.
She should have known. She did know. That’s what made it worse.
Pushing herself up, she crossed the room to the half-finished canvas on the easel. It was something new, born froma midnight impulse, a blur of blue and shadow and sharp, hard brushstrokes. She’d tried to paint it out of her system. But even in the storm, Catherine was still there.
Sloane dipped a brush into black paint and dragged it hard across the canvas, streaking over the delicate lines she’d laid down the night before. The movement was sharp and punishing. It felt good for a second, until it didn’t.
She threw the brush into the paint-stained sink with a clatter and turned away, pacing across the floor, bare feet slapping softly against the cool concrete. Her breath came faster, sharper. Not rage. Not really. Just something tangled and hot and restless that clawed beneath her skin.
I let her in. I let her see me. And she just…disappeared. Again.
The thought pulsed in her head like a heartbeat, and the ache that followed was sharp enough to make her stop in her tracks.
“Fuck,” she muttered, dragging both hands through her hair, tying it into a messy knot just to keep them from trembling.
Of course Catherine ran. That was what she did. That was what she knew. But this time, it hadn’t felt like a game. Not to Sloane. Not when Catherine had looked at her like that. Not when she’d whispered her name like it meant something. Not when she’d stayed.
Until she hadn’t.
The knock at the door startled her. It was too early for deliveries, and she hadn’t asked anyone to drop by. She padded over and cracked it open.
Dani stood there with two coffees and sunglasses pushed up onto her head like a crown. Her jacket was oversized and neon pink today, clashing spectacularly with the black combat boots she wore like a religion.
“You look like you’ve been up all night contemplating your place in the universe,” Dani said, stepping in uninvited and handing her one of the cups.
“Good morning to you, too,” Sloane muttered, taking the coffee and curling her fingers around it like it might anchor her.
Dani’s eyes swept the room—at the streaked canvas, the messy bed, the discarded phone. She raised one eyebrow but didn’t comment right away.
Instead, she sipped her drink and leaned against a table cluttered with palettes. “So, you gonna talk about it, or am I supposed to piece it together from your tortured artist energy?”
Sloane didn’t answer. She took a long drink of the coffee. It was too hot, but she liked the burn.
Dani smirked. “You’re not mad because she pulled away. You’re mad because you let yourself believe she wouldn’t.”
That stopped Sloane in her tracks.
She turned, coffee halfway to her lips. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” Dani shrugged, unbothered. “You let your guard down. You did the thing you always said you wouldn’t, fell for someone with walls taller than yours and thought maybe this time, they’d let you in.”
Sloane opened her mouth, then closed it. She sat down instead, the metal chair cold against her skin.
“Yeah,” she said finally. “Yeah, I’m mad because I saw something real. And I’m not going to pretend it didn’t happen. She made me feel like…like I wasn’t some passing distraction. Like I mattered. And then she just?—”
“Vanished?”
Sloane gave a tight nod. “Poof. Doctor Frosty act back in full force. Radio silence. It’s like I imagined all of it.”
Dani walked over and perched on the edge of the work table, her voice gentler now. “You didn’t imagine it.”
