“No,” she admitted.
They fell into a lull after that. Not uncomfortable, not really. Catherine watched as Sloane poked at her noodles, humming something low under her breath. The intimacy of it settled in Catherine’s bones. She had never shared this kind of space with someone—her home, her silence, her stillness.
“Why are you here?” Catherine asked, not unkindly.
Sloane looked up. “Because you asked me to be.”
“But after everything…”
Sloane shrugged. “You asked. And you didn’t run this time.”
Catherine exhaled slowly. “I might still.”
Sloane nodded, like she expected that. “I might still follow.”
That drew another laugh from Catherine, quieter, this time. She didn’t say anything else. But she didn’t look away either.
Sloane stood a few minutes later and wandered toward Catherine’s bookshelf, running her fingers along the spines. “You alphabetize.”
“Of course.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“You’re the one who brought flowers.”
Sloane turned, her smile soft. “I bring beauty wherever I go.”
Catherine tilted her head. “Modest, too.”
They grinned at each other. The air between them shifted to something warmer.
Catherine looked around her condo, suddenly seeing it the way Sloane might, all stark and lifeless And yet, somehow tonight, it felt a little more like something lived in. Like maybe it wasn’t so impossible to imagine Sloane in this space again and again.
She rose from the floor and moved toward the kitchen.
“What are you doing?” Sloane asked.
“Cleaning.”
“You’re such a control freak.”
“Yes,” Catherine said simply.
Sloane followed her, leaning against the counter. “You don’t have to impress me.”
“I know,” Catherine said, turning. “But I still want to.”
Sloane’s face shifted, something like wonder. She stepped closer, eyes searching.
“What are we doing?” she asked.
Catherine didn’t answer, not yet, but she reached for Sloane’s hand, and when their fingers intertwined, she didn’t pull away.
Not this time.
The wind had shifted by the time they left the condo. Catherine didn’t usually walk after dinner; she wasn’t the “sunset stroll” type. But something about the wine in her blood and the way Sloane had looked at her like she belonged had made her want to stretch out the evening just a little longer.
The air was crisp, touched with the scent of early autumn and the last fading warmth of the day. Above them, the sky was painted in hues of lavender and dusty gold, streaks of rosestretching over the horizon like someone had dragged a brush across the clouds.
