Chapter 13 #2
Catherine looked around her condo, suddenly seeing it the way Sloane might, all stark and lifeless And yet, somehow tonight, it felt a little more like something lived in. Like maybe it wasn’t so impossible to imagine Sloane in this space again and again.
She rose from the floor and moved toward the kitchen.
“What are you doing?” Sloane asked.
“Cleaning.”
“You’re such a control freak.”
“Yes,” Catherine said simply.
Sloane followed her, leaning against the counter. “You don’t have to impress me.”
“I know,” Catherine said, turning. “But I still want to.”
Sloane’s face shifted, something like wonder. She stepped closer, eyes searching.
“What are we doing?” she asked.
Catherine didn’t answer, not yet, but she reached for Sloane’s hand, and when their fingers intertwined, she didn’t pull away.
Not this time.
The wind had shifted by the time they left the condo. Catherine didn’t usually walk after dinner; she wasn’t the “sunset stroll” type. But something about the wine in her blood and the way Sloane had looked at her like she belonged had made her want to stretch out the evening just a little longer.
The air was crisp, touched with the scent of early autumn and the last fading warmth of the day. Above them, the sky was painted in hues of lavender and dusty gold, streaks of rose stretching over the horizon like someone had dragged a brush across the clouds.
They walked without much direction, their shoes crunching lightly over gravel and fallen leaves.
Street lamps flickered on, casting soft pools of light along the winding paths.
The park wasn’t crowded, just a few scattered silhouettes moving through the trees, occasional murmurs of conversation, and the distant laughter of kids lingering on the playground.
Catherine found herself slowing, adjusting her pace to match Sloane’s naturally unhurried stride.
“You always walk like you’re being timed,” Sloane remarked, bumping her shoulder lightly against Catherine’s.
Catherine quirked a brow. “I usually am. I have to be efficient at the hospital.”
“It’s called stress,” Sloane countered.
They turned down a quieter path lined with tall, slender trees, their branches arching overhead like a canopy. Catherine took a breath, inhaling the earthy scent of damp bark and crushed leaves. Her body felt unusually light—less armor, less edge.
Sloane slid her hands into her coat pockets. “Can I ask you something?”
“That depends,” Catherine replied, not unkindly.
“Your family,” Sloane said after a beat. “You’ve never really talked about them.”
Catherine stiffened.“They’re...complicated,” she said at first, her eyes scanning the path ahead.
Sloane didn’t press. She just let the question sit there, soft and unthreatening.
Catherine stopped beside a wrought-iron bench and sat, smoothing her hands over her knees. After a moment, Sloane sat too, close but not touching. The silence stretched.
“I’m the eldest,” Catherine began slowly, voice quieter now. “Which means I was the example and expectation for the others.”
She didn’t look at Sloane as she spoke, choosing instead to watch a squirrel dart across the grass and vanish up a tree.
“My mother believed excellence wasn’t a goal; it was a minimum requirement. Emotions were distractions, a weakness. If I got a ninety-eight on an exam, the question was why not a hundred. If I won an award, it was about what came next.”
Sloane said nothing.
Catherine's hands clenched lightly in her lap.
“There wasn’t space to fail. Or to feel. I learned to curate myself. To become what they needed me to be.”
She exhaled, slow and shaky.
“If I wasn’t exceptional, I wasn’t seen.”
That last sentence came out softer than she meant. Like a confession or maybe an old wound, cracking open in the dusk.
Beside her, Sloane didn’t flinch. She didn’t launch into reassurances or try to stitch the words back together with platitudes. She just let the silence settle again, heavy and real and kind.
“I see you,” Sloane said eventually, voice low.
Catherine turned her head. Sloane’s gaze was steady, a quiet force.“You don’t have to earn that with me,” she said. “You don’t have to impress me or fix things or perform. You don’t have to be anything. Just...be.”
Catherine’s throat tightened. She blinked a few times, but her vision still blurred at the edges.
A breeze moved through the trees, rustling the branches above them.
“You make it sound easy,” Catherine whispered.
“I didn’t say it was,” Sloane replied. “I just said you don’t have to do it alone.”
Catherine’s eyes dropped to the space between them.
Without thinking, her fingers inched toward Sloane’s, brushing against them, and Sloane didn’t move away.
After a moment, Catherine leaned, just slightly, until her shoulder pressed against Sloane’s.
It was tentative, careful. They sat like that for a while, saying nothing. Just letting the night hold them.
Somewhere in the distance, music drifted faintly from an open window, a soft melody played on piano, melancholic but beautiful.
Catherine closed her eyes.
The walk back was quiet, but not uncomfortable.
The city had settled into a reverie—low headlights, the occasional bark of a dog, a gust of wind carrying a floral scent from someone’s balcony garden. Catherine's hands were in her coat pockets, her shoulder brushing Sloane's every few steps. She didn’t shift away.
When they reached her condo, they stopped at the base of the stone steps. The lights from the streetlamps spilled in soft amber across Sloane’s face, gilding the edges of her curls.
Neither of them said anything for a long moment.
Sloane looked up at her, searching her expression, her mouth tugged into that half-smile that always felt like a dare. But there was no teasing this time, just something quiet and open. Waiting.
Catherine reached for her hand, no more accidental brushes, and Sloane’s fingers curled into hers without hesitation.
"You don’t have to come up," Catherine said, her voice low. "I just—"
“I know,” Sloane said gently, stepping a little closer.
She reached up, one hand at Catherine’s cheek, her thumb brushing just beneath her eye. Her kiss was slow, no hunger or urgency. Just the soft press of lips that meant ‘I see you. I want this. You.’
Catherine exhaled as they parted, resting her forehead lightly against Sloane’s. Her eyes were closed. The city kept thrumming around them, but it felt far away.
“I don’t know where this is going,” she whispered.
“I’m not asking you to know,” Sloane replied. Her voice was breathy and warm against Catherine’s lips. “I’m just asking you to stay in it.”
Catherine nodded, her forehead still against Sloane’s. “I want to.”
Another pause. A shared breath.
Then Sloane stepped back.
There was no dramatics, no last lingering touch. Just the smallest smile and a backward glance as she turned and walked down the sidewalk, her silhouette disappearing into the curve of the streetlamp’s light.
Catherine didn’t retreat.
She didn’t hide behind her door or rush back to the comfort of silence.
She stood there on the steps, watching her go.