But the thought settled like warmth at the base of her spine. Not fear. Not obligation. Something else.
Maybe, just maybe, she wanted this.
Really wanted it.
And maybe that was the scariest part of all.
Catherine stood at the stove, a wooden spoon clenched in her hand, her brow furrowed in concentration as she stared down at a wok of rapidly browning garlic and limp vegetables. The kitchen—sleek, chrome-heavy, and underused—smelled more like panic than dinner.
She exhaled through her nose, muttering a sharp curse when oil splattered onto her wrist. The stir-fry, how hard could it be? A few vegetables, some soy sauce, maybe a dash of sesame oil. Simple, in theory. But the garlic was burning, the noodles clumped together like soggy rubber bands, and she hadsomehow managed to smear sauce across the counter without realizing it.
This is fine,she lied to herself.
Her condo, immaculate as always, suddenly felt too sterile, too curated. The floors gleamed, the furniture was minimalist and neutral, and the lighting cast everything in cool tones. She glanced at the dining table. She’d even set out real linen napkins. What was she trying to prove?
That you can do this. That you’re not going to mess it up.
She turned back to the stove and reached for the salt with hands she hated noticing were trembling.
Then the doorbell rang.
She froze.
Heart suddenly loud in her chest, Catherine wiped her palms on her jeans and padded barefoot across the hardwood. She hadn’t worn jeans and a t-shirt in…years. It felt foreign.
Opening the door, she blinked once. Twice.
Sloane stood there, radiant even under the hallway’s dim light, her hair wild and hazel eyes dancing with amusement. She held a bottle of wine in one hand and a small bouquet of yellow tulips in the other.
"Hi," Sloane said with a soft smile, her voice low, easy.
Catherine stared at the flowers.
"You brought me plants."
"Technically dead ones," Sloane said. "But I figured your place could use some color. Unless you’re allergic to joy?"
Catherine stepped aside to let her in, her pulse skipping.
“I wasn’t expecting?—”
"That I’d be charming? That’s on you," Sloane quipped, brushing past her into the condo.
Catherine turned, watching as Sloane took in the space with those curious, perceptive eyes. She didn’t try to hide her expression, amusement tinged with surprise.
“It’s very...white in here,” Sloane said finally.
“It’s clean,” Catherine replied.
“It’s a crime scene waiting to happen. Don’t you own a pillow with color?”
“I have a gray throw blanket,” Catherine said dryly.
Sloane grinned and set the wine on the counter. “Ah, yes. Nothing says ‘emotional depth’ like gray.”
She turned her attention to the stove and winced. “Oh dear. That garlic did something very wrong in a past life.”
Catherine tensed. “It’s not that bad.”
