Sloane dipped a finger into the sauce and tasted it. Her eyes widened, and she coughed gently. “It’s...memorable.”
“No one’s ever complained,” Catherine snapped, folding her arms.
Sloane raised a brow. “Because no one’s ever stayed long enough to eat with you?”
Catherine flushed. “That’s not?—”
“I’m joking,” Sloane said gently, setting the spoon down and stepping closer. “Well, mostly.”
Catherine didn’t reply. She felt like a taut wire, every nerve on alert. She hadn’t expected this—Sloane’s easy entry into her world, her gentle poking at the edges of Catherine’s tightly sealed life.
“I ordered takeout,” she said stiffly. “Just in case.”
Sloane’s smile widened. “Look at you planning for failure. That’s growth.”
Catherine rolled her eyes, but a reluctant smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “I planned for options.”
“You keep telling yourself that.”
They ended up in the living room, the glass coffee table pushed aside to make space for cushions and two cartons of noodles resting precariously on the floor. The wine was uncorked, the tulips had been shoved unceremoniously into a tall water glass, and for the first time in a long while, Catherine wasn’t thinking about appearances.
She sat cross-legged on the rug, chopsticks in hand, watching as Sloane stretched out beside her, her legs crossed and curls falling across her shoulder.
“You’re very relaxed,” Catherine observed.
“Thank you. I practice.”
“At being smug?”
“At being comfortable,” Sloane corrected, raising her wineglass. “To trying.”
Catherine hesitated, then lifted hers. “To trying.”
They clinked.
Catherine took a slow sip, eyes flicking to Sloane’s profile. The artist was studying her, but not with amusement this time—with something gentler, something that made Catherine feel seen in a way she wasn’t used to.
“What?” Catherine asked, her tone sharper than intended.
“You laughed earlier,” Sloane said softly. “Just now. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you really laugh.”
Catherine blinked. “That’s not true.”
Sloane tilted her head. “It kind of is.”
Catherine shifted, setting her wineglass down. “Well. It’s not exactly something I do often.”
“Why?”
Catherine didn’t answer right away. Instead, she focused on picking up a piece of broccoli from her container. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter.
“Because it’s hard to stop once I start. And I don’t always know if I’ll find my way back.”
Sloane was quiet for a beat. Then she said, “That sounds lonely. Is that what you want?”
Sloane’s voice was soft, but it landed like a stone in Catherine’s chest.
Catherine looked away, toward the vast, dark windows. The city shimmered below, alive and chaotic and untamed.
