Sloane blinked. “That’s not what I expected.”
“I was twenty-nine. The patient coded on the table. I followed every protocol, but…” Her voice trailed off. “I stood in the scrub room afterward, staring at my hands like they belonged to someone else.”
Sloane leaned in just slightly, quieter now. “And?”
“And I realized I didn’t want to feel nothing. Not even if it made me a better surgeon. I wanted to care. I just didn’t know how to do both.”
Sloane’s fingers moved, slow and instinctive, threading gently through Catherine’s. “You figured it out, though.”
“I’m still trying.”
Their hands stayed clasped like that. The silence that followed wasn’t heavy; it pulsed with everything unsaid but understood.
Sloane glanced down at their fingers. Catherine’s knuckles were slightly tense, always holding back a little, always unsure if she should hold tighter.
She didn’t ask because she was curious,Sloane thought, the words forming before she could stop them.She asked because she cared. And it undid me.
And it did.
Because for all Catherine’s guarded looks and clipped words, her hands told the truth. They didn’t let go.
Catherine stood in the doorway to her bedroom, one hand on the frame, her eyes unreadable in the low light. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.
Sloane followed.
There was no rush, no heat sparking off her skin like it had before. No fumbling in doorways or tangled clothes scattered across the floor. This was something else entirely. Quieter. More deliberate.
The room was neat, like the rest of Catherine’s condo—cool tones, crisp lines, an absence of clutter. But there was a softness to it Sloane hadn’t expected. A worn sweater tossed over the chair in the corner. A candle burned low on the nightstand, its scent something faintly floral, almost nostalgic.
Catherine moved toward the bed and sat, smoothing the comforter beneath her palms. Her shoulders, still tense from dinner and conversation, rose with a breath and then settled.
Sloane approached slowly, giving her space to change her mind.
She didn’t.
When Sloane reached her, Catherine looked up. Her eyes were open in a way they hadn’t been before. Not guarded or calculating.
Just…bare.
Sloane lifted a hand, brushing her fingers along the curve of Catherine’s jaw. Her thumb swept across the sharp angle of her cheekbone, and Catherine closed her eyes at the touch, like it steadied her.
“Do you want me to stay tonight?” Sloane asked softly.
Catherine didn’t speak. She didn’t nod. She simply reached for the hem of Sloane’s shirt, her fingers brushing against the sliver of skin at her waist, and tugged gently. Sloane let the moment bloom.
She undressed Catherine slowly, peeling away each layer like an offering. The zipper of her jeans slid down with the quiet rasp of surrender. The cotton of her shirt clung to her spine, and Sloane eased it over her head, her hands warm on the skin beneath.
Catherine didn’t look away. Her eyes held Sloane’s, unblinking, as if grounding herself in the connection.
And then Sloane let Catherine undress her, too, carefully, reverently, as if each button meant something. As if this act was sacred. In a way, it was.
The covers rustled as they sank beneath them, and Sloane swore she could feel Catherine’s pulse in the inches of air between them. She reached for her hand first, fingers threading together like they had on the couch earlier, but this time bare skin met bare skin, and it was electric.
Sloane felt excited by the feel of Catherine’s naked body against her own. Feeling Catherine melt for her was the most precious thing she had ever experienced.
Sloane kissed her everywhere she could reach without breaking contact for long—jaw, throat, the fine line of collarbone, a slow survey that wasn’t about memorizing facts so much as feeling what changed under her mouth. She worked lower, and Catherine’s hand slid to the back of Sloane’s neck. Sloane obeyed.
“More,” Catherine breathed.
