Chapter 20
SLOANE
The light was starting to drain from the sky when Sloane realized she hadn’t moved in nearly an hour. She sat cross-legged in front of the unfinished canvas, fingers smudged with drying paint and eyes staring at the blur of color that refused to become anything at all.
It was the piece she'd started the night Catherine nearly died.
Brushstrokes layered in clashing reds and charcoal blacks with streaks of frantic gold that looked like chaos instead of light. She’d stopped working on it days ago. Now it just loomed in the studio like a memory she couldn’t reshape.
Dani had stopped coming by. Sloane had asked her for space—or rather, grunted her way into solitude. Her phone had stayed quiet. No texts. No missed calls. She hadn’t reached out again, not since Evelyn's venomous words.
“If she wants you, she’ll tell you.”
But Catherine hadn’t. Not a word, not even after waking up.
The ache sat too deep in Sloane’s chest for anger now. It had hollowed out into something quieter, heavier. Regret, maybe. Or grief.
She was just beginning to wipe her hands when her phone buzzed, screen lighting up beside a half-empty mug of tea.
Her breath caught.
Catherine Harrington.
The name pulsed on the screen like a heartbeat.
Sloane stared at it for a full second, two, three. Her stomach twisted. She hadn’t let herself hope. Not really.
Then she answered.
“Hey.”
Her voice cracked around the word. It was too soft, too vulnerable.
A pause on the other end. Then Catherine’s voice came, rough-edged and low, like it had been scraped over too many emotions in too short a time.
“Can you come?”
That was it. No explanations. No apologies. Just those three words.
Sloane swallowed hard. The noise of her own heartbeat roared in her ears.
“Yeah,” she whispered, already moving. “I’m on my way.”
The halls of Harrington Memorial were quieter at night, the buzz of urgency faded into murmurs and footsteps on polished floors.
Sloane walked like she belonged, her boots striking the linoleum with each determined step.
The receptionist barely looked up when she passed, either too tired to care or already warned by someone upstairs.
She didn’t know what she expected. A guarded Catherine? A half-hearted conversation through gritted teeth?
She didn’t expect the way her chest tightened when she stepped through the door and saw her.
Catherine was sitting upright in bed, back supported by a stack of pillows, the blue of the hospital gown sharp against her pale skin. Her hair was pulled back into a loose knot. Her blue eyes were dark and tired, but they were open. And they were on her.
They didn’t speak at first.
Sloane stood at the threshold like a ghost, her breath caught between fear and something dangerously close to hope.
Catherine blinked, then swallowed. Her lips parted like she meant to speak, but the words didn’t come.
Sloane stepped forward. She walked slowly, like the room was made of glass, and sat in the chair at Catherine’s bedside. Their knees nearly touched.
Sloane looked at her. Really looked.
There were bruises shadowing Catherine’s jawline, a healing gash near her hairline, and gauze taped along the inside of one arm. But it wasn’t the injuries that undid her. It was the softness.
Catherine looked tired. But she also looked open in a way Sloane had never seen. Raw. Unmasked.
Catherine cleared her throat first. “You came.”
Sloane exhaled a quiet, humorless laugh. “You asked.”
They sat in silence, the monitor beeping beside them like punctuation.
“I thought…” Catherine started, then stopped. Her hand clenched the edge of the blanket. “I thought you didn’t come because I wasn’t worth it.”
Sloane blinked. “What?”
Catherine’s eyes didn’t meet hers. “You didn’t call. You didn’t come. I thought it was over.”
Sloane’s mouth fell open. She shook her head, pain and fury swirling in her chest. “Catherine, your mother told me you didn’t want to see me. That you needed space. That it wasn’t my place.”
Catherine’s head snapped up.
Sloane saw it hit her in real time—the disbelief, then the slow dawning of betrayal.
“She said what?” Catherine’s voice sharpened, barely above a whisper.
Sloane nodded, voice lower now. “She said you made it clear that if I cared about your recovery, I’d stay away.”
“I didn’t…” Catherine pressed her hands to her face, then dragged them down slowly. “I didn’t even know you’d tried.”
“I did,” Sloane whispered. “And when she said that, god, Catherine, I believed her. Because you’re so good at pushing me away, I thought maybe this time, you meant it.”
Catherine looked like she’d been physically struck. “I didn’t. I don’t.”
“I know that now,” Sloane said softly. “But I didn’t then.”
She reached forward, fingers curling around Catherine’s.
It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t a movie moment. But it was honest, and it mattered.
“I needed you,” Catherine admitted. “And when you didn’t come, it broke something in me.”
Sloane squeezed her hand.
“And when I found out you were hurt and I wasn’t there…” Sloane’s voice cracked. “That broke something in me too.”
Catherine’s lashes fluttered. Her gaze drifted to their hands. Her thumb moved, stroking lightly along the back of Sloane’s.
They didn’t say I’m sorry. They didn’t cry. Not here, not yet.
But the space between them was smaller and the ache a little quieter.
And for the first time in weeks, Sloane felt like they might still have something worth fighting for.
They didn’t rush into an apology or explanations. It was like both of them knew that too many things had been left unspoken for too long, and that now, silence would only steal more from them.
Sloane sat beside the hospital bed, one hand cradling Catherine’s and the other resting in her lap.
Catherine's face was pale and thinner than she remembered, her hair tucked behind her ear with none of its usual harsh elegance.“I thought I’d never see you again,” Catherine said, her voice rough from both the intubation and the weight of the days passed. “I thought I ruined everything.”
“You didn’t.” Sloane’s thumb grazed her knuckles. “You tried to protect yourself. I get it now. But, Catherine, you scared me. And when your mother came to me, I believed her because part of me was already convinced I’d pushed too hard.”
Catherine’s brows furrowed. “Why didn’t you call?”
“She told me you didn’t want to see me.” Sloane’s voice cracked. “She looked me in the eye and said you’d made your choice. And after everything, I believed her.”
Catherine blinked. “I didn’t even know She took that from us.”
Sloane nodded, her lips pressed tightly. “And I let her. That’s on me.”
Catherine shook her head, gripping her hand. “It’s not. I froze again and panicked. But when I woke up and you weren’t there, I thought I’d lost you. For real this time.”
“You almost did.” Sloane’s voice was quiet, almost too gentle. “I was preparing myself to walk away.”
Silence hung between them, heavy and brimming with all they’d both held back. Then Catherine took a long, slow breath and said, “I don’t want to live like that anymore. I don’t want to protect myself from the very thing I need.”
Sloane tilted her head, unsure. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I want you,” Catherine whispered. “And not in the way I used to want things, not because you fit in a box I can understand. Because you don’t. And that’s why I love you.”
Sloane blinked, the words echoing inside her like thunder. “Say that again.”
“I love you.” Catherine’s eyes didn’t waver. “I love you, and I don’t want to spend one more day pretending I’m not terrified. But I’m more terrified of losing you.”
Sloane leaned in, her forehead brushing Catherine’s. “I’m not perfect. I’m impulsive and loud and probably way too messy for your clean, clinical world.”
Catherine smiled, broken and beautiful. “Good. I don’t need perfect. I need real. And I need you.”
They stayed like that—foreheads touching, breaths in sync. For the first time, it wasn’t about who was right or who would run first. It was about the quiet, mutual decision to stay.
Sloane didn’t leave that night.
She pulled the reclining visitor chair closer to the bed, kicked off her boots, and curled her legs beneath her. Catherine looked at her like she couldn’t quite believe she was still there.
“What?” Sloane asked, quirking a brow.
Catherine shook her head slowly. “Nothing. Just…I forgot what it felt like to fall asleep not being afraid someone would leave.”
“Then I guess we’re starting over,” Sloane said, reaching for her hand again. “But not from the beginning. From here. From what we know now.”
Catherine's eyes shimmered under the low light of the hospital room. “Here is scary. Here is uncertain.”
Sloane grinned. “Here is honest.”
They didn’t kiss, not yet. That wasn’t what this night was about. It was about presence. About proof.
When Catherine began to drift off again, her head tilted toward Sloane’s side of the bed. Her hand stayed tangled in Sloane’s, even in sleep.
Sloane stayed awake a while longer, watching the rise and fall of Catherine’s chest, listening to the rhythmic beeping of the monitor.
She thought about all the nights she’d waited for a message that never came.
All the paintings she’d half-finished with Catherine’s face etched between the brushstrokes.
And now, she was here. Breathing. Loving.
In the morning, light filtered in through the blinds. Catherine stirred, groaning softly as she stretched against the sheets.
Sloane smiled as her eyes opened. “Morning.”
Catherine blinked at her, like it was still a surprise. “You’re still here.”
Sloane leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her temple. “So are you.”
It was the simplest truth either of them had ever spoken.
The nurse came in to check Catherine’s vitals, and Sloane stood, brushing her jeans smooth. “I’ll go get coffee. Don’t move.”
Catherine lifted a brow. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Sloane smiled and stepped out, her chest full in a way that felt impossible a week ago.
They had a long road ahead—trust to rebuild, families to deal with, and fears that didn’t vanish overnight.
But they had this moment. This new beginning.
And they weren’t running anymore.