Chapter 13
CATHERINE
The hospital office was too quiet, a rare lull between back-to-back surgeries and an emergency board meeting that had gone nowhere.
Catherine sat alone behind her desk, her back straight and her scrub top rumpled beneath her white coat.
The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and cold coffee.
A chart lay open in front of her, but she hadn’t looked at it in twenty minutes.
Her phone was on the desk, the screen dark. She didn’t need to tap it to know the name still sat there at the top of her messages, unanswered and unopened.
Sloane.
Catherine’s thumb hovered over the screen, then retracted. Again. It was becoming a ritual, this hesitation.
There was something quietly brutal about the stairwell confrontation. Not the volume; Sloane hadn’t raised her voice. She hadn’t cried or pleaded. She had just stood there—solid, honest, and in the way only someone who truly cared could be.
“If you want me, stop running. If not, let me go.”
Catherine had replayed those words in her mind more times than she wanted to admit.
And the worst part was, she couldn’t let her go.
Not because of lust or proximity or even curiosity.
But because when she looked at Sloane, something softened in her that had been hard for so long, she barely remembered what it felt like.
She pressed her fingers to her temple, then downed a sip of lukewarm coffee. Her phone buzzed once. A hospital-wide update. Not her. Not Sloane. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
What was she even doing?
Catherine picked up the phone again, unlocked it, and scrolled to Sloane’s name. Her thumb hovered. A beat. Two.
Then she hit the call button.
It rang twice before she considered hanging up. Three. She pulled the phone from her ear just as it clicked.
“Catherine?” Sloane’s voice was cautious but calm, edged with something unreadable.
Catherine swallowed. “Hi.” She sounded rough. She cleared her throat. “I was wondering if you’re free tonight.”
There was a pause. Not long, but long enough to make Catherine’s chest tighten.
“For what?” Sloane asked. Still even. Not cold, but careful.
“Dinner,” Catherine said. “My place. Just…” She stopped. Then tried again. “Just dinner.”
Another silence, gentler this time. Then: “Okay.”
Catherine blinked. “Okay?”
“Yeah. Okay.” There was a faint smile in Sloane’s voice now. “Do I need to bring food? Or should I be emotionally prepared for toast and wine?”
“I can cook,” Catherine said, too fast. Then, after a beat: “Probably.”
Sloane laughed. And just like that, the tightness in Catherine’s chest loosened a little.
“Text me your address again,” Sloane said. “And don’t burn anything. I’m too pretty for smoke inhalation.”
Catherine almost smiled. “Seven?”
“I’ll be there.”
They hung up. Catherine stared at the screen a moment longer, then set it down. Her hand hovered over it for a second before she pulled it back. No backing out now.
She exhaled slowly and leaned back in her chair. Her shoulders ached with the weight she’d been carrying. For once, she let them drop.
Sloane was coming to her space for dinner. And she wasn’t panicking.
Not yet.
But the thought settled like warmth at the base of her spine. Not fear. Not obligation. Something else.
Maybe, just maybe, she wanted this.
Really wanted it.
And maybe that was the scariest part of all.
Catherine stood at the stove, a wooden spoon clenched in her hand, her brow furrowed in concentration as she stared down at a wok of rapidly browning garlic and limp vegetables. The kitchen—sleek, chrome-heavy, and underused—smelled more like panic than dinner.
She exhaled through her nose, muttering a sharp curse when oil splattered onto her wrist. The stir-fry, how hard could it be?
A few vegetables, some soy sauce, maybe a dash of sesame oil.
Simple, in theory. But the garlic was burning, the noodles clumped together like soggy rubber bands, and she had somehow managed to smear sauce across the counter without realizing it.
This is fine, she lied to herself.
Her condo, immaculate as always, suddenly felt too sterile, too curated. The floors gleamed, the furniture was minimalist and neutral, and the lighting cast everything in cool tones. She glanced at the dining table. She’d even set out real linen napkins. What was she trying to prove?
That you can do this. That you’re not going to mess it up.
She turned back to the stove and reached for the salt with hands she hated noticing were trembling.
Then the doorbell rang.
She froze.
Heart suddenly loud in her chest, Catherine wiped her palms on her jeans and padded barefoot across the hardwood. She hadn’t worn jeans and a t-shirt in…years. It felt foreign.
Opening the door, she blinked once. Twice.
Sloane stood there, radiant even under the hallway’s dim light, her hair wild and hazel eyes dancing with amusement. She held a bottle of wine in one hand and a small bouquet of yellow tulips in the other.
"Hi," Sloane said with a soft smile, her voice low, easy.
Catherine stared at the flowers.
"You brought me plants."
"Technically dead ones," Sloane said. "But I figured your place could use some color. Unless you’re allergic to joy?"
Catherine stepped aside to let her in, her pulse skipping.
“I wasn’t expecting—”
"That I’d be charming? That’s on you," Sloane quipped, brushing past her into the condo.
Catherine turned, watching as Sloane took in the space with those curious, perceptive eyes. She didn’t try to hide her expression, amusement tinged with surprise.
“It’s very...white in here,” Sloane said finally.
“It’s clean,” Catherine replied.
“It’s a crime scene waiting to happen. Don’t you own a pillow with color?”
“I have a gray throw blanket,” Catherine said dryly.
Sloane grinned and set the wine on the counter. “Ah, yes. Nothing says ‘emotional depth’ like gray.”
She turned her attention to the stove and winced. “Oh dear. That garlic did something very wrong in a past life.”
Catherine tensed. “It’s not that bad.”
Sloane dipped a finger into the sauce and tasted it. Her eyes widened, and she coughed gently. “It’s...memorable.”
“No one’s ever complained,” Catherine snapped, folding her arms.
Sloane raised a brow. “Because no one’s ever stayed long enough to eat with you?”
Catherine flushed. “That’s not—”
“I’m joking,” Sloane said gently, setting the spoon down and stepping closer. “Well, mostly.”
Catherine didn’t reply. She felt like a taut wire, every nerve on alert. She hadn’t expected this—Sloane’s easy entry into her world, her gentle poking at the edges of Catherine’s tightly sealed life.
“I ordered takeout,” she said stiffly. “Just in case.”
Sloane’s smile widened. “Look at you planning for failure. That’s growth.”
Catherine rolled her eyes, but a reluctant smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “I planned for options.”
“You keep telling yourself that.”
They ended up in the living room, the glass coffee table pushed aside to make space for cushions and two cartons of noodles resting precariously on the floor.
The wine was uncorked, the tulips had been shoved unceremoniously into a tall water glass, and for the first time in a long while, Catherine wasn’t thinking about appearances.
She sat cross-legged on the rug, chopsticks in hand, watching as Sloane stretched out beside her, her legs crossed and curls falling across her shoulder.
“You’re very relaxed,” Catherine observed.
“Thank you. I practice.”
“At being smug?”
“At being comfortable,” Sloane corrected, raising her wineglass. “To trying.”
Catherine hesitated, then lifted hers. “To trying.”
They clinked.
Catherine took a slow sip, eyes flicking to Sloane’s profile. The artist was studying her, but not with amusement this time—with something gentler, something that made Catherine feel seen in a way she wasn’t used to.
“What?” Catherine asked, her tone sharper than intended.
“You laughed earlier,” Sloane said softly. “Just now. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you really laugh.”
Catherine blinked. “That’s not true.”
Sloane tilted her head. “It kind of is.”
Catherine shifted, setting her wineglass down. “Well. It’s not exactly something I do often.”
“Why?”
Catherine didn’t answer right away. Instead, she focused on picking up a piece of broccoli from her container. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter.
“Because it’s hard to stop once I start. And I don’t always know if I’ll find my way back.”
Sloane was quiet for a beat. Then she said, “That sounds lonely. Is that what you want?”
Sloane’s voice was soft, but it landed like a stone in Catherine’s chest.
Catherine looked away, toward the vast, dark windows. The city shimmered below, alive and chaotic and untamed.
“No,” she admitted.
They fell into a lull after that. Not uncomfortable, not really. Catherine watched as Sloane poked at her noodles, humming something low under her breath. The intimacy of it settled in Catherine’s bones. She had never shared this kind of space with someone—her home, her silence, her stillness.
“Why are you here?” Catherine asked, not unkindly.
Sloane looked up. “Because you asked me to be.”
“But after everything…”
Sloane shrugged. “You asked. And you didn’t run this time.”
Catherine exhaled slowly. “I might still.”
Sloane nodded, like she expected that. “I might still follow.”
That drew another laugh from Catherine, quieter, this time. She didn’t say anything else. But she didn’t look away either.
Sloane stood a few minutes later and wandered toward Catherine’s bookshelf, running her fingers along the spines. “You alphabetize.”
“Of course.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“You’re the one who brought flowers.”
Sloane turned, her smile soft. “I bring beauty wherever I go.”
Catherine tilted her head. “Modest, too.”
They grinned at each other. The air between them shifted to something warmer.