Catherine smirked. “Maybe I’m saying she was never quite as frozen as you thought.”
Sloane grinned. “Or maybe I’m just that good.”
“You’re absolutely insufferable.”
“But you’re still holding my hand.”
Catherine didn’t let go. Not even when the crowd thickened, not even when someone bumped into her. She kept Sloane close, fingers laced tight, like she had no intention of letting go again.
They walked in silence for a while, past the final stalls where paper lanterns fluttered like jellyfish in the warm night breeze. Sloane tilted her head as they turned toward home.
“So?” she asked. “Festival verdict?”
Catherine paused. Then, slowly, she said, “Maybe I do like spontaneity. A little.”
Sloane’s whole face lit up. “See? I knew you’d come around.”
Catherine bumped her with her shoulder. “Don’t get cocky.”
“Too late.”
They laughed together, their silhouettes stretching long in the amber glow of a nearby lamp post. There was no grand moment or dramatic declarations. Just the way Catherine’s smile lingered. The way she leaned in just a little closer as they walked. The way her fingers didn’t release even as they reached her front steps.
They came home with music still in their ears and the faint scent of cinnamon sugar on their clothes. Catherine kicked off her shoes at the door, the hem of her linen shirt half-tucked, her hair loose and wind-swept from the breeze off the river. Sloane watched her move through the space, her space, as though she belonged there. No stiffness. No formality. Just Catherine.
They were barefoot, wine glasses in hand, curled into opposite corners of the couch. The windows were cracked to let in the sounds of the city below: horns, footsteps, the occasional laugh drifting up like a memory of the festival. A soft jazz record spun low in the background, something Sloane had picked out earlier from the tiny record store they passed on the way home.
Catherine was quiet, her glass resting against her thigh, untouched. Her eyes moved but didn’t land on anything. Sloane recognized the weight in her stillness.
“You’re thinking,” Sloane said gently, setting her glass on the coffee table. “Hard.”
Catherine didn’t look at her, not yet. “I’ve been thinking for a while.”
Sloane leaned in, resting her chin on her palm. “About what?”
Silence. Then, softly: “About…what’s next.”
That caught Sloane’s attention.
Catherine finally turned to meet her gaze, and what Sloane saw there was a mix of nerves and quiet conviction. The kindof expression that only came after something had already been decided.
“I got an offer,” Catherine said. “It came through a few weeks ago. One of the outreach coordinators in Southeast Asia reached out. There’s a surgical team rotating through underserved rural hospitals that are short-staffed, low-resource, high-need. They’re asking for volunteers.”
Sloane sat up straighter, her heart beginning to race, but not in fear. “You want to go.”
Catherine gave the faintest nod. “I do. I think I always have. I just never allowed myself to consider it.”
“And now?” Sloane asked.
Catherine looked down into her lap. “Now I don’t want to be someone who waits. I’ve spent my life waiting to be enough, waiting to be perfect, waiting for permission to live. I don’t want to do that anymore.”
Sloane reached across the space and touched her knee. “Catherine…”
“I want to go,” she said, voice firmer now. “But not alone.”
That made Sloane pause.
“I don’t want this to be a solo mission,” Catherine said. “I don’t want to disappear into another version of isolation. I want you there, with me. Not to follow me, but to come with me.”
