Chapter 22
SLOANE
The mornings were slow now.
Not sluggish, not dull, just intentional.
The kind of quiet that used to make Sloane restless now settled into her bones like warmth after rain.
She moved through Catherine’s condo barefoot, her coffee cooling between her hands, the ceramic mug smudged with yellow paint from her fingers.
Across the room, Catherine sat on the sofa with her legs tucked beneath her, reading something on her tablet, still in the soft cotton pajamas Sloane had bought her in a size too big. She wore them anyway.
This was what it meant to stay, Sloane thought. This was what it meant to be still and not feel caged.
The last few weeks had rearranged something inside her.
Catherine hadn’t just come back to her, she’d stayed.
She’d opened. And in doing so, Sloane saw a version of her no one else had: the one who laughed at Sloane’s bad jokes, who fell asleep on her chest after reading half a page of a book, who kissed her without fear, without urgency. Just because.
They’d found a rhythm. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t always easy. But it was real.
Some mornings, Sloane painted in the studio Catherine had cleared out for her in the guest room.
Other days, they made pancakes too thick and scrambled eggs too dry, then laughing through the mess like it was a Michelin star meal.
They shared space in a way Sloane never had with anyone before—collaborative, unhurried, and without tension.
It amazed her, the way Catherine was changing, not in who she was but in what she allowed herself to feel.
The other day, Catherine had come home late from a post-op meeting and stood barefoot in the kitchen, tossing her keys onto the counter and muttering, “I’m tired of saving the world in heels.
” Then she’d peeled off her blazer, poured a glass of wine, and climbed onto the counter to sit beside Sloane while she worked on a sketch.
Sloane had stared at her then, unable to stop smiling. “Who are you and what have you done with Dr. Harrington?”
Catherine had shrugged and taken a sip of wine. “She’s on sabbatical.”
That was it. That was all she said. But Sloane had tucked the moment into her heart like a pressed flower.
Now, as Catherine glanced up and caught her watching, a small smile ghosted across her face, sleepy and content.
“You’re staring,” Catherine murmured.
“I am,” Sloane agreed, not bothering to deny it.
“You’re weird.”
“And you’re beautiful. So I think I win.”
Catherine rolled her eyes, but her smile didn’t fade. She reached across the couch and pulled Sloane down beside her, looping their fingers together.
Sloane looked down at their joined hands and breathed in the comfort of it all. This wasn’t the kind of passion that roared and burned, it was the kind that rooted. That made you grow.
And it was new.
Not the feeling, no—she’d known for a long time how deep this went—but the steadiness. The ease. Catherine was still Catherine—structured, reserved, commanding—but there was softness now. And Sloane wasn’t waiting for her to run anymore. She wasn’t holding her breath.
She was finally breathing.
Catherine rested her head on Sloane’s shoulder. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not giving up. For being here.” Her voice was low, intimate.
Sloane tilted her head, brushing a kiss against Catherine’s hairline. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
They sat in silence, the morning folding around them in gold and quiet, and Sloane realized something she hadn’t allowed herself to fully believe before:
They were building something. Not just healing from something broken or surviving the fallout.
They were building.
And Sloane had never felt more at home.
The sun dipped low behind the rooftops, staining the sky in melted peaches and rose-gold.
The neighborhood festival hummed with soft music, the clinking of glassware, and the smell of roasted corn drifting through the stalls.
Sloane’s fingers threaded easily through Catherine’s as they strolled past lantern-lit booths, every step echoing the ease they had grown into.
Catherine wore a linen shirt she hadn’t bothered to button all the way, her sleeves rolled to the elbow, her hair swept into a low knot that had started to come undone.
It was a version of her that Sloane had only glimpsed in fragments before, a woman less guarded, more fluid. Her smile wasn’t polished. It was real.
Sloane squeezed her hand. “Do you realize how much you’re enjoying this?”
Catherine arched a brow, eyes dancing as they passed a violinist playing near a fountain. “Am I?”
“Don’t play coy. You’re practically glowing.”
“I think that’s just the humidity.”
Sloane laughed, the kind that slipped from her belly without effort. “Nope. That’s joy. You’re having fun.”
Catherine slowed her steps, glancing at a trio of teenagers spinning under string lights ahead. She watched them for a long moment, something quiet settling in her gaze.
“I used to think things like this were indulgent,” she murmured. “All noise and wasted time.”
“And now?” Sloane nudged her shoulder.
“Now…” Catherine hesitated. “Now it feels like I missed something.”
They stopped at a vendor selling handmade candles. Catherine picked up one scented with sandalwood and citrus, turning it over in her hands as if studying something sacred.
“I never thought I’d be able to turn the volume down on everything,” she admitted.
Sloane leaned in, her voice low and warm. “Maybe you just needed the right person to help you do it.”
Catherine didn’t respond immediately. But she turned toward Sloane, her expression softer than the fading light, and offered the candle like an offering.
“For your studio,” she said.
Sloane took it, her thumb brushing over Catherine’s wrist. “For everything.”
They wandered deeper into the market. They tried sticky tamarind drinks from a stand shaped like a tuk-tuk, and Sloane somehow convinced Catherine to sample fried plantains even though she claimed to hate street food.
Catherine’s face puckered at the first bite, and then, reluctantly, she reached for another.
“You’re impossible,” she said, chewing with a sigh.
“I’m delightful,” Sloane corrected. “And you’re starting to admit it.”
Later, as they sat on the edge of a stone fountain, their knees bumping beneath the rim of a borrowed blanket, Sloane tilted her face toward the stars peeking through the early night.
“This is the first time I’ve seen you like this,” she said. “Not just relaxed, but present”
Catherine’s hand brushed her thigh, a quiet, grounding gesture. “Maybe I’m finally learning how.”
Sloane glanced sideways at her. “So you’re saying I’ve reformed the Ice Queen?”
Catherine smirked. “Maybe I’m saying she was never quite as frozen as you thought.”
Sloane grinned. “Or maybe I’m just that good.”
“You’re absolutely insufferable.”
“But you’re still holding my hand.”
Catherine didn’t let go. Not even when the crowd thickened, not even when someone bumped into her. She kept Sloane close, fingers laced tight, like she had no intention of letting go again.
They walked in silence for a while, past the final stalls where paper lanterns fluttered like jellyfish in the warm night breeze. Sloane tilted her head as they turned toward home.
“So?” she asked. “Festival verdict?”
Catherine paused. Then, slowly, she said, “Maybe I do like spontaneity. A little.”
Sloane’s whole face lit up. “See? I knew you’d come around.”
Catherine bumped her with her shoulder. “Don’t get cocky.”
“Too late.”
They laughed together, their silhouettes stretching long in the amber glow of a nearby lamp post. There was no grand moment or dramatic declarations.
Just the way Catherine’s smile lingered.
The way she leaned in just a little closer as they walked.
The way her fingers didn’t release even as they reached her front steps.
They came home with music still in their ears and the faint scent of cinnamon sugar on their clothes.
Catherine kicked off her shoes at the door, the hem of her linen shirt half-tucked, her hair loose and wind-swept from the breeze off the river.
Sloane watched her move through the space, her space, as though she belonged there.
No stiffness. No formality. Just Catherine.
They were barefoot, wine glasses in hand, curled into opposite corners of the couch.
The windows were cracked to let in the sounds of the city below: horns, footsteps, the occasional laugh drifting up like a memory of the festival.
A soft jazz record spun low in the background, something Sloane had picked out earlier from the tiny record store they passed on the way home.
Catherine was quiet, her glass resting against her thigh, untouched. Her eyes moved but didn’t land on anything. Sloane recognized the weight in her stillness.
“You’re thinking,” Sloane said gently, setting her glass on the coffee table. “Hard.”
Catherine didn’t look at her, not yet. “I’ve been thinking for a while.”
Sloane leaned in, resting her chin on her palm. “About what?”
Silence. Then, softly: “About…what’s next.”
That caught Sloane’s attention.
Catherine finally turned to meet her gaze, and what Sloane saw there was a mix of nerves and quiet conviction. The kind of expression that only came after something had already been decided.
“I got an offer,” Catherine said. “It came through a few weeks ago. One of the outreach coordinators in Southeast Asia reached out. There’s a surgical team rotating through underserved rural hospitals that are short-staffed, low-resource, high-need. They’re asking for volunteers.”
Sloane sat up straighter, her heart beginning to race, but not in fear. “You want to go.”
Catherine gave the faintest nod. “I do. I think I always have. I just never allowed myself to consider it.”
“And now?” Sloane asked.