Chapter 8
SLOANE
The first thing Sloane registered was the warmth of sunlight spilling through the tall studio windows, casting golden streaks across the room.
It crept lazily over her bare skin, coaxing her awake with the kind of slow, indulgent comfort that usually meant a good morning was ahead.
She stretched, her body sinking further into the sheets, the scent of paint and something distinctly Catherine still lingering in the air.
She reached out instinctively, expecting the comforting weight of another body beside her.
Her fingers met only cool sheets.
Her brows furrowed as her eyes fluttered open, the slow ease of waking up replaced by sharp awareness. The bed next to her was empty. Completely untouched, save for the faint indentation where Catherine had once been.
For a moment, Sloane just lay there, staring at the space Catherine had occupied only hours before.
Then, with a slow, knowing exhale, she let her head fall back against the pillow.
Of course.
She wasn’t an idiot. She’d known this would happen.
Catherine—ever the enigma, the woman who calculated every move before making it—wasn’t the type to linger in the morning light, tangled in sheets and lazy affection.
She was the type to slip out before dawn, before the night could become something real, something undeniable.
Still, knowing it was inevitable didn’t make the empty space next to her feel any less frustrating.
She sat up, running a hand through her curls as she surveyed the quiet chaos of her studio.
Their shared painting, streaks of deep crimson and gold blended in a mess neither of them had intended, stood propped against the far wall, the colors dried now but still carrying the energy of the night before.
The drop cloth beneath them was a beautiful disaster of smeared paint, evidence of where they had lost themselves, where Catherine had let go.
Sloane swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her feet pressing against the cool floor as she reached for her abandoned shirt, slipping it on without much thought. The space felt too quiet now. Catherine had taken her presence with her, leaving nothing behind but a lingering ache in the air.
Shaking her head, she pushed off the bed, reaching for the cup of water she had left on her worktable the night before. She took a sip, her gaze flicking back to the bed, to the way the pillow was still faintly indented.
She reached out and ran her fingers lightly over the fabric. It was cold now, but if she closed her eyes, she could almost feel the warmth of Catherine’s skin still there.
A slow smile tugged at her lips.
"You can run, Catherine," she murmured to the quiet room, her voice husky from sleep. "But you can’t hide from this."
Because Sloane knew the truth. Last night hadn’t been just a lapse in judgment, a moment of indulgence that could be forgotten. Catherine had felt it, just like she had.
And once you’ve tasted something real, something that pulls at the edges of everything you thought you knew about yourself, you don’t just walk away from it.
Even if you try.
The café was comfortably crowded, the hushed tones of conversation blending with the clinking of silverware and the occasional hiss of the espresso machine.
The scent of fresh coffee and warm pastries filled the air, but Sloane barely registered it as she sat at a small table near the window, stirring her black coffee without taking a sip.
Across from her, Dani watched, arms crossed, her chin resting lazily in one hand as she assessed Sloane with the kind of knowing smirk that made Sloane want to reach across the table and flick her forehead.
"You’ve got that look," Dani finally said, taking a slow, deliberate sip of her own coffee.
Sloane blinked, snapping out of her thoughts. "What look?"
Dani set her cup down with exaggerated patience. "The ‘I slept with someone who makes my brain short-circuit and now I’m spiraling’ look."
Sloane scoffed. "I don’t spiral."
Dani arched a perfectly sculpted brow. "You’re stirring coffee like it holds the answers to the universe, babe. That’s a spiral if I’ve ever seen one."
Sloane glanced down at her coffee, realizing she’d been idly swirling the spoon through a cup she hadn’t even touched. With a sigh, she dropped the spoon onto the saucer with a clatter and finally took a sip, the bitter liquid grounding her.
"It’s not a spiral," she muttered, setting the cup down. "It’s…irritation."
Dani hummed, leaning back in her chair. “Doctor Frosty ran away after she came, didn’t she?"
Sloane shot her a flat look.
Dani grinned. "Predictable. But it still stings, huh?"
"Not stings," Sloane said, though the words tasted like a lie. "It just annoys me. She left before I woke up. Slipped out like it was some reckless decision she needed to erase before daylight hit."
Dani drummed her fingers against the tabletop. "To be fair, it was reckless. And you love reckless."
Sloane let out a low laugh, shaking her head. "Yeah, but this? This wasn’t reckless, Dani. Not really."
Dani’s smirk faded slightly, her sharp gaze turning more thoughtful. "You actually like her."
Sloane looked away, scanning the café for nothing in particular. "It’s not about liking her."
Dani snorted. "Oh, babe, it’s absolutely about liking her."
Sloane sighed, leaning back in her chair. "Fine. Maybe I do. But that’s not the problem."
"Then what is?"
Sloane’s fingers traced the rim of her coffee cup. "She felt it too. That’s what’s frustrating. She’s not pretending it didn’t happen; she’s pretending it didn’t mean anything."
Dani studied her for a long moment before shrugging. "She’s the Ice Queen for a reason, Sloane. You don’t melt that overnight."
"I don’t want to melt her," Sloane said, her voice quieter now, more serious. "I just want her to stop running from something we both know is real."
Dani sighed, reaching for a sugar packet and ripping it open with an unnecessary amount of force. "You really don’t do easy, do you?"
Sloane smirked. "Where’s the fun in that?"
Dani shook her head, dumping the sugar into her coffee. "Just be careful. Catherine’s the kind of person who’s spent a long time convincing herself she doesn’t need anyone. That’s not easy to undo."
Sloane considered that, rolling the thought around in her mind.
"I don’t need to undo anything," she said finally. "I just need her to stop fighting so damn hard."
Dani exhaled, shaking her head like she already knew Sloane wouldn’t let this go. "Well, if anyone’s stubborn enough to make a Doctor Frosty cave, it’s you."
Sloane grinned, tipping her coffee cup toward Dani in a silent toast. "Now that’s the kind of faith I like to hear."
Sloane stood in the middle of the hospital hallway, surrounded by a small group of nurses as she entertained them with a story of when she was embarrassed at a gallery opening.
She waved her hands animatedly, miming when she dropped her own not-yet- dried painting, and the nurses leaned in, enthralled.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Catherine materialize from what looked like the break room, clutching what looked like a disposable coffee cup. Catherine was already looking at her, what looked like a frown fixed on her face as she approached, her heels clicking on the tile.
Sloane shifted and smiled. “Dr. Harrington.”
Catherine folded her arms across her chest. “What are you doing here?”
Sloane placed a hand over her heart in mock offense. “Wow, not even a hello? I thought doctors were supposed to have good bedside manner.”
Catherine arched her brow. “Try answering the question.”
Sloane smirked and pointed to a large canvas leaning against the hallway wall. “Well, if you must know, I’m delivering commissioned artwork to the pediatric ward. You know, for the kids, to brighten up the place.”
Catherine’s eyes flicked to the canvas briefly, then back to Sloane, then back to the canvas, as if trying to decide if Sloane was being legitimate or if it were just a little too convenient of an excuse to be here at the hospital at the same time as her.
Catherine exhaled, leveling her with a sharp look. “Don’t play games with me.”
Sloane tilted her her head slightly. “No games,” she said, smoothly. “Just delivering the painting and getting some coffee.” Her voice dropped slightly, just enough to make Catherine have to lean in to hear here. “And maybe an answer as to why you vanished like a thief in the night.”
Sloane saw the small muscles tightening in Catherine’s jaw. The nurses she had been entertaining just moments before exchanged glances then made themselves scarce, dispersing and shuffling off with whispered excuses about paperwork, leaving Sloane and Catherine alone in the middle of the hallway.
Catherine took a long sip of her coffee, but Sloane could see it was just a way for her to stall. “There was nothing to talk about,” she said, her voice crisp and detached.
Sloane let out a soft chuckle, the sound laced with an edge. “Oh, sweetheart, you can lie to yourself, but don’t lie to me. I know what last night meant.”
Catherine straightened. “You’re reading into something that isn’t there.”
Sloane sucked her teeth, unconvinced. “That’s funny because I could’ve sworn I felt something.” She leaned in, just a fraction of an inch. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Catherine’s intense stare wavered as she looked to the floor and shifted her stance. “I don’t do this.”
“Do what?”
“This.” Catherine gestured vaguely between them, frustration seeping into her voice. “Whatever this is.”
Sloane leaned back and studied her for a few beats, then nodded. “Okay.”
Catherine simply blinked. “Okay?”
Sloane’s lips curved upward at the corners. “Okay as in we don’t have to define this, but that doesn’t mean you get to pretend it doesn’t exist.”
Catherine looked at her, as if searching her face, but she otherwise stayed silent.
Sloane tilted her head. “Dinner.”
Catherine frowned. “What?”
“Have dinner with me.”
“I—”