“For not giving up. For being here.” Her voice was low, intimate.
Sloane tilted her head, brushing a kiss against Catherine’s hairline. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
They sat in silence, the morning folding around them in gold and quiet, and Sloane realized something she hadn’t allowed herself to fully believe before:
They were building something. Not just healing from something broken or surviving the fallout.
They were building.
And Sloane had never felt more at home.
The sun dipped low behind the rooftops, staining the sky in melted peaches and rose-gold. The neighborhood festival hummed with soft music, the clinking of glassware, and the smell of roasted corn drifting through the stalls. Sloane’s fingers threaded easily through Catherine’s as they strolled past lantern-lit booths, every step echoing the ease they had grown into.
Catherine wore a linen shirt she hadn’t bothered to button all the way, her sleeves rolled to the elbow, her hair swept into alow knot that had started to come undone. It was a version of her that Sloane had only glimpsed in fragments before, a woman less guarded, more fluid. Her smile wasn’t polished. It was real.
Sloane squeezed her hand. “Do you realize how much you’re enjoying this?”
Catherine arched a brow, eyes dancing as they passed a violinist playing near a fountain. “Am I?”
“Don’t play coy. You’re practically glowing.”
“I think that’s just the humidity.”
Sloane laughed, the kind that slipped from her belly without effort. “Nope. That’s joy. You’re having fun.”
Catherine slowed her steps, glancing at a trio of teenagers spinning under string lights ahead. She watched them for a long moment, something quiet settling in her gaze.
“I used to think things like this were indulgent,” she murmured. “All noise and wasted time.”
“And now?” Sloane nudged her shoulder.
“Now…” Catherine hesitated. “Now it feels like I missed something.”
They stopped at a vendor selling handmade candles. Catherine picked up one scented with sandalwood and citrus, turning it over in her hands as if studying something sacred.
“I never thought I’d be able to turn the volume down on everything,” she admitted.
Sloane leaned in, her voice low and warm. “Maybe you just needed the right person to help you do it.”
Catherine didn’t respond immediately. But she turned toward Sloane, her expression softer than the fading light, and offered the candle like an offering.
“For your studio,” she said.
Sloane took it, her thumb brushing over Catherine’s wrist. “For everything.”
They wandered deeper into the market. They tried sticky tamarind drinks from a stand shaped like a tuk-tuk, and Sloane somehow convinced Catherine to sample fried plantains even though she claimed to hate street food. Catherine’s face puckered at the first bite, and then, reluctantly, she reached for another.
“You’re impossible,” she said, chewing with a sigh.
“I’m delightful,” Sloane corrected. “And you’re starting to admit it.”
Later, as they sat on the edge of a stone fountain, their knees bumping beneath the rim of a borrowed blanket, Sloane tilted her face toward the stars peeking through the early night.
“This is the first time I’ve seen you like this,” she said. “Not just relaxed, but present”
Catherine’s hand brushed her thigh, a quiet, grounding gesture. “Maybe I’m finally learning how.”
Sloane glanced sideways at her. “So you’re saying I’ve reformed the Ice Queen?”
