CATHERINE
The hospital office was too quiet, a rare lull between back-to-back surgeries and an emergency board meeting that had gone nowhere. Catherine sat alone behind her desk, her back straight and her scrub top rumpled beneath her white coat. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and cold coffee. A chart lay open in front of her, but she hadn’t looked at it in twenty minutes.
Her phone was on the desk, the screen dark. She didn’t need to tap it to know the name still sat there at the top of her messages, unanswered and unopened.
Sloane.
Catherine’s thumb hovered over the screen, then retracted. Again. It was becoming a ritual, this hesitation.
There was something quietly brutal about the stairwell confrontation. Not the volume; Sloane hadn’t raised her voice. She hadn’t cried or pleaded. She had just stood there—solid, honest, and in the way only someone who truly cared could be.
“If you want me, stop running. If not, let me go.”
Catherine had replayed those words in her mind more times than she wanted to admit. And the worst part was, she couldn’tlet her go. Not because of lust or proximity or even curiosity. But because when she looked at Sloane, something softened in her that had been hard for so long, she barely remembered what it felt like.
She pressed her fingers to her temple, then downed a sip of lukewarm coffee. Her phone buzzed once. A hospital-wide update. Not her. Not Sloane. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
What was she even doing?
Catherine picked up the phone again, unlocked it, and scrolled to Sloane’s name. Her thumb hovered. A beat. Two.
Then she hit the call button.
It rang twice before she considered hanging up. Three. She pulled the phone from her ear just as it clicked.
“Catherine?” Sloane’s voice was cautious but calm, edged with something unreadable.
Catherine swallowed. “Hi.” She sounded rough. She cleared her throat. “I was wondering if you’re free tonight.”
There was a pause. Not long, but long enough to make Catherine’s chest tighten.
“For what?” Sloane asked. Still even. Not cold, but careful.
“Dinner,” Catherine said. “My place. Just…” She stopped. Then tried again. “Just dinner.”
Another silence, gentler this time. Then: “Okay.”
Catherine blinked. “Okay?”
“Yeah. Okay.” There was a faint smile in Sloane’s voice now. “Do I need to bring food? Or should I be emotionally prepared for toast and wine?”
“I can cook,” Catherine said, too fast. Then, after a beat: “Probably.”
Sloane laughed. And just like that, the tightness in Catherine’s chest loosened a little.
“Text me your address again,” Sloane said. “And don’t burn anything. I’m too pretty for smoke inhalation.”
Catherine almost smiled. “Seven?”
“I’ll be there.”
They hung up. Catherine stared at the screen a moment longer, then set it down. Her hand hovered over it for a second before she pulled it back. No backing out now.
She exhaled slowly and leaned back in her chair. Her shoulders ached with the weight she’d been carrying. For once, she let them drop.
Sloane was coming to her space for dinner. And she wasn’t panicking.
Not yet.
