Catherine gave her a deadpan look, but Sloane saw the faint tug of amusement at her mouth. “I didn’t realize the bar was gourmet.”
“Darling, you set the fire alarm off last time.”
“That was one time.”
“Exactly one more than me.”
Sloane moved toward her without thinking, slipping a hand over Catherine’s waist, and Catherine turned slightly toward her. The kiss was soft and brief, not hungry or rushed. Just hers.
Catherine pulled back a beat too soon, her eyes dropping to the stove like she needed an excuse to break the moment. “I hope you brought wine.”
Sloane wiggled the bottle. “And an emergency backup plan if this ends in char.”
It did.
They ended up on the floor of the living room, their chopsticks digging into takeout noodles and their backs against Catherine’s plush gray couch. A candle flickered on the coffee table. Catherine had opened a window to let the smoke clear, and the air drifted cooler now, brushing along their ankles.
Sloane’s legs were stretched out beside Catherine’s, tangled loosely, casually. Her fingers brushed against Catherine’s knee as she reached for her wine. It felt easy in a way that almost startled her.
“You don’t cook much, do you?” she teased.
“I perform surgeries. I don’t sauté.”
Sloane raised a brow. “You do know there’s more to life than scalpels, right?”
“Well, that’s debatable.”
They sat in a quiet rhythm for a while, chewing, sipping, and stealing glances. Catherine had changed into jeans and a soft navy T-shirt, and something about seeing her like that—unguarded, slightly ruffled, no scrubs or sleek bun—made Sloane’s chest tighten.
Not with lust, something gentler.
“So,” Catherine said, setting her empty box on the table. “Tell me about your first exhibition. The real one, not the high school hallway kind.”
Sloane blinked at the shift. “You want the glamorous version or the truth?”
“I’ll take the one with fire code violations and tears.”
Sloane smiled slowly. “That was the one in the old shoe factory loft. I couldn’t afford real lighting, so we strung fairy lights from nails in the ceiling. Dani nearly got electrocuted. A critic said my use of shadow was ‘disorienting’, and he meant it as an insult, but I used it as a quote on the promo flier for the next one.”
Catherine laughed, a low, warm sound that Sloane barely ever got to hear. She wanted to bottle it.
“What did you show?” Catherine asked. “What did twenty-two-year-old Sloane think was worthy of the world?”
“Angst,” she said dryly. “Painted angst. I had one piece where I mixed black acrylic with soil from my mom’s garden. I was going through a thing.”
“You don’t say.”
“I also had a red canvas I slashed in three places with a box cutter. I called itInheritance.”
Catherine raised an eyebrow. “Your subtlety is remarkable.”
“I’ve grown since then.”
Catherine didn’t say anything for a second, just turned her head toward Sloane, watching her with something that looked a lot like reverence.
Sloane cleared her throat, trying to ignore how warm that look made her feel. “What about you? First time you felt like a real surgeon?”
Catherine hesitated. “The first time I failed.”
