Sloane leaned in, her forehead brushing Catherine’s. “I’m not perfect. I’m impulsive and loud and probably way too messy for your clean, clinical world.”
Catherine smiled, broken and beautiful. “Good. I don’t need perfect. I need real. And I need you.”
They stayed like that—foreheads touching, breaths in sync. For the first time, it wasn’t about who was right or who would run first. It was about the quiet, mutual decision to stay.
Sloane didn’t leave that night.
She pulled the reclining visitor chair closer to the bed, kicked off her boots, and curled her legs beneath her. Catherine looked at her like she couldn’t quite believe she was still there.
“What?” Sloane asked, quirking a brow.
Catherine shook her head slowly. “Nothing. Just…I forgot what it felt like to fall asleep not being afraid someone would leave.”
“Then I guess we’re starting over,” Sloane said, reaching for her hand again. “But not from the beginning. From here. From what we know now.”
Catherine's eyes shimmered under the low light of the hospital room. “Here is scary. Here is uncertain.”
Sloane grinned. “Here is honest.”
They didn’t kiss, not yet. That wasn’t what this night was about. It was about presence. About proof.
When Catherine began to drift off again, her head tilted toward Sloane’s side of the bed. Her hand stayed tangled in Sloane’s, even in sleep.
Sloane stayed awake a while longer, watching the rise and fall of Catherine’s chest, listening to the rhythmic beeping of the monitor. She thought about all the nights she’d waited for a message that never came. All the paintings she’d half-finished with Catherine’s face etched between the brushstrokes.
And now, she was here. Breathing. Loving.
In the morning, light filtered in through the blinds. Catherine stirred, groaning softly as she stretched against the sheets.
Sloane smiled as her eyes opened. “Morning.”
Catherine blinked at her, like it was still a surprise. “You’re still here.”
Sloane leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her temple. “So are you.”
It was the simplest truth either of them had ever spoken.
The nurse came in to check Catherine’s vitals, and Sloane stood, brushing her jeans smooth. “I’ll go get coffee. Don’t move.”
Catherine lifted a brow. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Sloane smiled and stepped out, her chest full in a way that felt impossible a week ago.
They had a long road ahead—trust to rebuild, families to deal with, and fears that didn’t vanish overnight.
But they had this moment. This new beginning.
And they weren’t running anymore.
21
CATHERINE
The room felt smaller now that she was leaving it.
Catherine sat on the edge of the hospital bed, clothed for the first time in something that wasn’t a gown. The familiar weight of tailored fabric felt foreign on her healing body, a costume for a role she hadn’t fully stepped back into. The bruises had faded and the sutures removed, but something inside her still felt unfinished, like a book she hadn’t dared to reread.
Roz was folding a few last things into a canvas tote: her sketchpad, a small plant from Olivia, and the leather-bound journal Sloane had given her that had stayed unopened until the night before. It now rested on the top of the pile, its soft cover creased where Catherine had clutched it too tightly.
