Catherine closed her eyes.
The walk back was quiet, but not uncomfortable.
The city had settled into a reverie—low headlights, the occasional bark of a dog, a gust of wind carrying a floral scent from someone’s balcony garden. Catherine's hands were in her coat pockets, her shoulder brushing Sloane's every few steps. She didn’t shift away.
When they reached her condo, they stopped at the base of the stone steps. The lights from the streetlamps spilled in soft amber across Sloane’s face, gilding the edges of her curls.
Neither of them said anything for a long moment.
Sloane looked up at her, searching her expression, her mouth tugged into that half-smile that always felt like a dare. But there was no teasing this time, just something quiet and open. Waiting.
Catherine reached for her hand, no more accidental brushes, and Sloane’s fingers curled into hers without hesitation.
"You don’t have to come up," Catherine said, her voice low. "I just?—"
“I know,” Sloane said gently, stepping a little closer.
She reached up, one hand at Catherine’s cheek, her thumb brushing just beneath her eye. Her kiss was slow, no hunger orurgency. Just the soft press of lips that meant‘I see you. I want this. You.’
Catherine exhaled as they parted, resting her forehead lightly against Sloane’s. Her eyes were closed. The city kept thrumming around them, but it felt far away.
“I don’t know where this is going,” she whispered.
“I’m not asking you to know,” Sloane replied. Her voice was breathy and warm against Catherine’s lips. “I’m just asking you to stay in it.”
Catherine nodded, her forehead still against Sloane’s. “I want to.”
Another pause. A shared breath.
Then Sloane stepped back.
There was no dramatics, no last lingering touch. Just the smallest smile and a backward glance as she turned and walked down the sidewalk, her silhouette disappearing into the curve of the streetlamp’s light.
Catherine didn’t retreat.
She didn’t hide behind her door or rush back to the comfort of silence.
She stood there on the steps, watching her go.
14
SLOANE
The scent of garlic hit Sloane the moment the elevator doors opened. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant, just a little too sharp, too toasted. She smiled to herself as she stepped into the hallway, the wine bottle cold in her hand, flowers tucked awkwardly beneath her arm.
When Catherine opened the door, she was barefoot, her cheeks flushed and hair pinned back messily. Behind her, smoke curled from the edge of a pan on the stove.
“I’m…managing,” Catherine said instead of hello, stepping aside to let her in.
Sloane bit back a grin as she handed over the flowers. “These are for the grave you’re digging with that garlic.”
Catherine rolled her eyes but took them anyway, holding them like she didn’t quite know what to do with them. “You brought more flowers.”
“You’re cooking again,” Sloane said, kicking off her shoes. “We’re both full of surprises tonight.”
The kitchen was warm, too warm, and the oven was clearly forgotten. A pan of something—maybe vegetables?—was half-scorched on the stove, and Sloane caught the distinct smell of soy sauce clinging to the air.
“You’re trying to kill me with stir fry,” she said as she leaned against the counter. “That’s how this ends.”
