Sloane’s heart swelled. “You want me to come with you overseas?”
Catherine nodded. “I want us to go together. Travel. Help. Live outside the schedule. Outside the pressure. I know it won’t be easy, but”—she faltered—“I need to know if you’d even consider it.”
There was a long, full silence.
Then Sloane smiled, soft and sure, like she’d been waiting for this invitation her whole life. “Catherine, there’s nowhere I wouldn’t go with you.”
A breath Catherine hadn’t realized she was holding left her lungs. She set her glass aside and leaned across the couch, cupping Sloane’s cheek. “You mean that?”
“I mean it,” Sloane said, eyes glowing. “It doesn’t matter where we are. What matters is you. Us. I want to wake up with paint in my hair and your coffee that tastes like battery acid and nights under ceilings that don’t belong to us. I want that whole messy, beautiful version of life with you.”
A smile broke across Catherine’s face, real and unguarded. “Even the battery acid coffee?”
“I’ll bring the beans,” Sloane said, grinning.
They sat there for a long time, foreheads pressed together, hearts beating steady. For the first time, there was no question between them. Only choice.
And they were choosing this.
The next morning, sunlight spilled across Catherine’s kitchen like it belonged there. Sloane leaned against the counter, nursing her coffee while Catherine padded barefoot around the space, her movements unhurried in a way they never used to be. Last night still clung to them, tender and warm.
“So,” Sloane said, breaking the silence, “when do we leave?”
Catherine paused, a fresh strawberry halfway to her mouth. “We?”
Sloane raised an eyebrow. “Don’t make me take it back. I already mentally bought a wide-brimmed hat and committed to questionable street food.”
Catherine laughed, but it didn’t carry the usual guard. “I just... I keep expecting you to wake up one day and realize I’m too much structure and not enough color.”
“You’re not a canvas, Catherine,” Sloane said, pushing off the counter and stepping closer. “You’re the whole goddamn gallery.”
That earned her a flush of pink in Catherine’s cheeks, a reward she wanted to frame and hang up.
They spent the next hour sprawled on the couch, their laptops open, tabs multiplying like wildfire as they scrolled through volunteer programs, potential destinations, and international housing sites.
“Cambodia?” Sloane asked. “I could fall in love with that coastline.”
Catherine nodded thoughtfully. “There’s a surgical exchange program there. Teaching local doctors, building infrastructure—not just cutting and leaving.”
Sloane watched her speak, noting the light in her eyes and the calm confidence. This wasn’t escapism. Catherine wasn’t running anymore.
“And you’d paint?” Catherine asked, glancing sideways. “Wherever we went?”
“I’d paint your shadow if it meant being near you,” Sloane said, and it was the kind of thing she might’ve said playfully once, but now it came out soft and sincere. Real.
They talked through logistics: what to do with their homes, how long they’d go, what to bring. The conversation was practical, but the energy underneath it was electric. They were planning a life, not just a trip.
Catherine pulled out a notebook and started making lists. “You’ll need vaccines,” she said, scribbling with unnecessary precision. “And paperwork. We both will.”
Sloane plucked the pen from her fingers. “This isn’t one of your OR checklists. We’re allowed to be excited without spreadsheets.”
Catherine rolled her eyes, but her smile stayed. “Old habits.”
Sloane kissed her temple. “We’ll break them. One country at a time.”
Later, as the afternoon waned, they curled up in the living room, plans half-finished but hearts full. Catherine’s hand rested lightly on Sloane’s knee, her head against her shoulder.
“You’re really in this,” Catherine said quietly. Not a question, an observation laced with awe.
