Chapter 21
CATHERINE
The room felt smaller now that she was leaving it.
Catherine sat on the edge of the hospital bed, clothed for the first time in something that wasn’t a gown.
The familiar weight of tailored fabric felt foreign on her healing body, a costume for a role she hadn’t fully stepped back into.
The bruises had faded and the sutures removed, but something inside her still felt unfinished, like a book she hadn’t dared to reread.
Roz was folding a few last things into a canvas tote: her sketchpad, a small plant from Olivia, and the leather-bound journal Sloane had given her that had stayed unopened until the night before.
It now rested on the top of the pile, its soft cover creased where Catherine had clutched it too tightly.
“Stop hovering,” Catherine said without venom, eyes flicking up at her sister.
Roz snorted but didn’t stop folding. “You say that like I’m not contractually obligated to supervise your grand exit.”
Olivia appeared in the doorway with a soft knock and a smile, carrying a coffee tray like a peace offering. “I brought real coffee,” she said, setting it down carefully on the rolling table. “None of that decaf crap they’ve been sneaking into your IVs.”
Catherine accepted the cup with a ghost of a smile. “I’ve missed this.”
“The caffeine or us?” Roz asked, slinging the bag over her shoulder.
Catherine didn’t answer. She just took a slow sip, the bitterness grounding her.
They helped her into a long camel coat, one Olivia had brought from her place.
It felt heavier than she remembered, like putting on armor again.
As she reached for her scarf, her hand paused at the edge of the pocket.
Her fingers brushed something small and folded. A note. Sloane’s note. Still there.
Her throat tightened.
The walk through the hospital was slow. Not physically—her steps were steady,—but emotionally, it was like wading through a memory. Every hallway echoed with what she’d lost and almost lost. Doctors nodded, and nurses smiled, but Catherine didn’t stop for any of them. She kept her gaze ahead.
Until she saw Evelyn.
The matriarch of the Harrington family stood by the elevator, crisp and cold in a charcoal coat, her silver hair pulled into its usual twist. She looked like she’d walked out of a portrait.
“You’re leaving,” Evelyn said, voice devoid of anything resembling welcome or warmth.
“I am,” Catherine replied, lifting her chin.
“You should’ve taken another week. You’re not fully recovered.”
“I’m not your patient.”
Roz bristled beside her, but Catherine raised a hand subtly, signaling she had it under control. She wanted this. She needed it.
Evelyn’s gaze sharpened. “You’re not a woman who lets emotions dictate her path. Don’t start now.”
Catherine let out a breath, long and quiet. “No. I used to be a woman who mistook silence for strength. That’s not the same thing.”
For a moment, Evelyn’s eyes flickered, something nearly human passing through them, but then it was gone, locked behind decades of perfectionism and distance.
“You’re making a mistake,” she said.
Catherine stepped closer, her voice steady. “No. I made the mistake of trying to earn your version of love. I’m not doing that anymore.”
Roz exhaled beside her, a quiet sound of solidarity. Olivia reached for her hand and squeezed it.
Without another word, Catherine turned away. The elevator dinged open, and she stepped inside.
As the doors closed, she didn’t look back.
The door clicked open with a soft click, and Catherine stepped into the hush of her condo, the space still, spotless, and untouched by anything but time. It was just as she had left it: curated, cold, impersonal. But now it felt different.
Because she wasn’t alone.
Sloane walked in behind her, carrying her overnight bag in one hand and a grocery bag in the other. She didn’t say much. Just a quiet glance in Catherine’s direction before toeing off her boots and heading toward the kitchen.
Catherine hovered just inside the door, coat still on, unsure what to do with the unfamiliar hum of comfort in her chest. Her home had never been a place for company. It was a retreat, a stronghold, until Sloane walked into it like she belonged.
Maybe she did.
Sloane returned, taking the coat gently from her shoulders without asking. Catherine let her. The soft brush of fingers down her arms made her heart jump. She wasn’t used to being taken care of. Not like this. Not with tenderness.
“You okay?” Sloane asked, voice low.
Catherine nodded, her throat too tight for speech.
Sloane didn’t press. She just gestured toward the couch. “Sit. I’ll make something. You’ve probably had nothing but jello and IV fluids for days.”
Catherine raised an eyebrow. “You’re cooking?”
Sloane grinned, already unpacking ingredients. “I’m competent, not good. Don’t get excited.”
She moved with natural confidence through the kitchen, sleeves pushed up and hair twisted into a messy knot.
She wore Catherine’s oversized gray sweatshirt, the one she’d once borrowed and apparently never returned.
Seeing her in it now made something shift in Catherine’s chest. It was ordinary. Domestic. Intimate.
She sat, knees pulled to her chest, and watched.
Sloane talked while she chopped vegetables about a painting she was working on, a dog she saw in the street wearing a raincoat, and a ridiculous conversation she overheard in a coffee shop.
And Catherine just listened.
It felt like breathing after being underwater.
At one point, Sloane looked over her shoulder, eyes dancing. “You know, this silence used to mean you were judging me.”
Catherine tilted her head. “And now?”
“Now I think you just like the sound of me.”
Catherine smirked. “Maybe.”
They ate on the couch, plates balanced on their knees, the TV on in the background but muted. Sloane’s cooking was exactly what she said: competent. The pasta was slightly overdone and the sauce leaned a little too heavy on lemon, but Catherine didn’t care.
She hadn’t tasted anything this good in weeks.
Halfway through the meal, Sloane looked over at her, fork hovering midair. “You’re really quiet.”
“I’m just...tired.”
Sloane nodded. “Of your mother? Or of holding the world up by your own spine?”
Catherine blinked at her. The question was a knife and a balm all at once.
“Yes,” she said softly.
They didn’t talk much after that. But it wasn’t avoidance. It was ease. They cleaned up together—Catherine drying the dishes, Sloane stacking them haphazardly into the cupboards.
After, Catherine lingered in the hallway outside her bedroom, watching as Sloane settled on the couch.
“You can stay, you know,” Catherine said.
Sloane looked up slowly. “You sure?”
Catherine nodded. “I don’t want to sleep alone tonight.”
There was no heat in her voice, no edge of seduction. Just honesty.
Sloane rose, walked to her, and gently brushed a curl behind her ear. “Okay.”
After the dishes were done and the light from the kitchen dimmed into a soft golden haze, Catherine found herself back on the couch, tucked beneath the throw Sloane had draped over her the last time she’d been there.
The weight of it was familiar, and it smelled of clean linen, faint lavender, and something distinctly Sloane.
She curled her legs beneath her, eyes half-lidded but alert. Her body ached in places still healing, but the ache wasn’t unbearable. Not like before. Not like the quiet that had stretched between them for too long.
Sloane returned with two mugs of tea, offering one with a slight tilt of her head.
“Chamomile,” she said. “Because you’re old and fragile now.”
Catherine snorted softly, taking the mug. “Charming.”
“I try.”
Sloane sat beside her, not too close, not crowding, but close enough that their knees brushed, and Catherine didn’t move away. They sipped in silence for a few moments, the air between them buzzing with something cautious but warm.
It was Sloane who finally broke it.
“Are you sure you’re ready?” she asked, her voice gentle, threading through the quiet. “For us, I mean. Again.”
Catherine let her head rest against the back of the sofa, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “I don’t know what ready is supposed to feel like. But I know I want this. I want you.”
Sloane didn’t reply right away. Catherine turned her head slightly and found Sloane watching her—not with suspicion or disbelief, but with that quiet intensity she always had when she was studying a painting up close and looking for meaning between the lines.
“I’m ready to learn how to be with you,” Catherine continued. “Openly. No hiding. I just...I might be slow.”
Sloane reached over, her fingers curling softly around Catherine’s free hand.
“Then we’ll take our time,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
That did something to Catherine—made her shoulders drop, her breath release, made her thumb slide along Sloane’s knuckle like a promise.
“That night before the accident,” she said quietly, “I thought I’d ruined everything.
I told myself you’d walked away because you realized I wasn’t built for love. ”
“You’re not built for pretending not to need it,” Sloane replied. “That’s all.”
They sat like that for a long time, just holding hands, the tea forgotten.
“I’ve been so afraid,” Catherine admitted eventually. “Of needing anyone. Of being seen. That if someone got close enough, they’d see everything I work so hard to keep buried and run.”
Sloane leaned in, her shoulder brushing Catherine’s. “I’ve already seen it. And I’m still here.”
Catherine looked down at their joined hands. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Even when I pushed you away?”
“I came back, didn’t I?”
A beat of silence. Catherine blinked against the warmth that rushed to her throat.
“What do you want from this?” she asked, more fragile than she meant to sound.