She smiled.
Small, tired, but true. She leaned forward and kissed Sloane gently.
And when she pulled back, she tucked herself into Sloane’s arms again and whispered, “Let’s stay like this. Just for a little longer.”
Sloane nodded against her hair.
“Forever if you want.”
22
SLOANE
The mornings were slow now.
Not sluggish, not dull, just intentional. The kind of quiet that used to make Sloane restless now settled into her bones like warmth after rain. She moved through Catherine’s condo barefoot, her coffee cooling between her hands, the ceramic mug smudged with yellow paint from her fingers. Across the room, Catherine sat on the sofa with her legs tucked beneath her, reading something on her tablet, still in the soft cotton pajamas Sloane had bought her in a size too big. She wore them anyway.
This was what it meant to stay,Sloane thought.This was what it meant to be still and not feel caged.
The last few weeks had rearranged something inside her. Catherine hadn’t just come back to her, she’d stayed. She’d opened. And in doing so, Sloane saw a version of her no one else had: the one who laughed at Sloane’s bad jokes, who fell asleep on her chest after reading half a page of a book, who kissed her without fear, without urgency. Just because.
They’d found a rhythm. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t always easy. But it was real.
Some mornings, Sloane painted in the studio Catherine had cleared out for her in the guest room. Other days, they made pancakes too thick and scrambled eggs too dry, then laughing through the mess like it was a Michelin star meal. They shared space in a way Sloane never had with anyone before—collaborative, unhurried, and without tension.
It amazed her, the way Catherine was changing, not in who she was but in what she allowed herself to feel.
The other day, Catherine had come home late from a post-op meeting and stood barefoot in the kitchen, tossing her keys onto the counter and muttering, “I’m tired of saving the world in heels.” Then she’d peeled off her blazer, poured a glass of wine, and climbed onto the counter to sit beside Sloane while she worked on a sketch.
Sloane had stared at her then, unable to stop smiling. “Who are you and what have you done with Dr. Harrington?”
Catherine had shrugged and taken a sip of wine. “She’s on sabbatical.”
That was it. That was all she said. But Sloane had tucked the moment into her heart like a pressed flower.
Now, as Catherine glanced up and caught her watching, a small smile ghosted across her face, sleepy and content.
“You’re staring,” Catherine murmured.
“I am,” Sloane agreed, not bothering to deny it.
“You’re weird.”
“And you’re beautiful. So I think I win.”
Catherine rolled her eyes, but her smile didn’t fade. She reached across the couch and pulled Sloane down beside her, looping their fingers together.
Sloane looked down at their joined hands and breathed in the comfort of it all. This wasn’t the kind of passion that roared and burned, it was the kind that rooted. That made you grow.
And it was new.
Not the feeling, no—she’d known for a long time how deep this went—but the steadiness. The ease. Catherine was still Catherine—structured, reserved, commanding—but there was softness now. And Sloane wasn’t waiting for her to run anymore. She wasn’t holding her breath.
She was finally breathing.
Catherine rested her head on Sloane’s shoulder. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
