Chapter 22 #2
Catherine looked down into her lap. “Now I don’t want to be someone who waits. I’ve spent my life waiting to be enough, waiting to be perfect, waiting for permission to live. I don’t want to do that anymore.”
Sloane reached across the space and touched her knee. “Catherine…”
“I want to go,” she said, voice firmer now. “But not alone.”
That made Sloane pause.
“I don’t want this to be a solo mission,” Catherine said. “I don’t want to disappear into another version of isolation. I want you there, with me. Not to follow me, but to come with me.”
Sloane’s heart swelled. “You want me to come with you overseas?”
Catherine nodded. “I want us to go together. Travel. Help. Live outside the schedule. Outside the pressure. I know it won’t be easy, but”—she faltered—“I need to know if you’d even consider it.”
There was a long, full silence.
Then Sloane smiled, soft and sure, like she’d been waiting for this invitation her whole life. “Catherine, there’s nowhere I wouldn’t go with you.”
A breath Catherine hadn’t realized she was holding left her lungs. She set her glass aside and leaned across the couch, cupping Sloane’s cheek. “You mean that?”
“I mean it,” Sloane said, eyes glowing. “It doesn’t matter where we are. What matters is you. Us. I want to wake up with paint in my hair and your coffee that tastes like battery acid and nights under ceilings that don’t belong to us. I want that whole messy, beautiful version of life with you.”
A smile broke across Catherine’s face, real and unguarded. “Even the battery acid coffee?”
“I’ll bring the beans,” Sloane said, grinning.
They sat there for a long time, foreheads pressed together, hearts beating steady. For the first time, there was no question between them. Only choice.
And they were choosing this.
The next morning, sunlight spilled across Catherine’s kitchen like it belonged there. Sloane leaned against the counter, nursing her coffee while Catherine padded barefoot around the space, her movements unhurried in a way they never used to be. Last night still clung to them, tender and warm.
“So,” Sloane said, breaking the silence, “when do we leave?”
Catherine paused, a fresh strawberry halfway to her mouth. “We?”
Sloane raised an eyebrow. “Don’t make me take it back. I already mentally bought a wide-brimmed hat and committed to questionable street food.”
Catherine laughed, but it didn’t carry the usual guard. “I just... I keep expecting you to wake up one day and realize I’m too much structure and not enough color.”
“You’re not a canvas, Catherine,” Sloane said, pushing off the counter and stepping closer. “You’re the whole goddamn gallery.”
That earned her a flush of pink in Catherine’s cheeks, a reward she wanted to frame and hang up.
They spent the next hour sprawled on the couch, their laptops open, tabs multiplying like wildfire as they scrolled through volunteer programs, potential destinations, and international housing sites.
“Cambodia?” Sloane asked. “I could fall in love with that coastline.”
Catherine nodded thoughtfully. “There’s a surgical exchange program there. Teaching local doctors, building infrastructure—not just cutting and leaving.”
Sloane watched her speak, noting the light in her eyes and the calm confidence. This wasn’t escapism. Catherine wasn’t running anymore.
“And you’d paint?” Catherine asked, glancing sideways. “Wherever we went?”
“I’d paint your shadow if it meant being near you,” Sloane said, and it was the kind of thing she might’ve said playfully once, but now it came out soft and sincere. Real.
They talked through logistics: what to do with their homes, how long they’d go, what to bring. The conversation was practical, but the energy underneath it was electric. They were planning a life, not just a trip.
Catherine pulled out a notebook and started making lists. “You’ll need vaccines,” she said, scribbling with unnecessary precision. “And paperwork. We both will.”
Sloane plucked the pen from her fingers. “This isn’t one of your OR checklists. We’re allowed to be excited without spreadsheets.”
Catherine rolled her eyes, but her smile stayed. “Old habits.”
Sloane kissed her temple. “We’ll break them. One country at a time.”
Later, as the afternoon waned, they curled up in the living room, plans half-finished but hearts full. Catherine’s hand rested lightly on Sloane’s knee, her head against her shoulder.
“You’re really in this,” Catherine said quietly. Not a question, an observation laced with awe.
“I’ve always been in this,” Sloane replied. “You’re the one finally meeting me halfway.”
Catherine looked up. “No, not halfway. All the way. I just didn’t know how to start.”
Sloane touched her face, letting her thumb rest along Catherine’s jaw. “This is a hell of a beginning.”
Sloane walked into the bedroom first, shrugging out of her denim jacket with a fluid, easy grace that Catherine found herself watching like it was art.
The lamp was already on, soft golden light that made the room feel like something out of a painting.
Or maybe it just felt that way because Sloane was in it.
Catherine lingered in the doorway, her coat still buttoned, lips parted slightly as if she had something to say but hadn’t found the words yet.
“You’re staring,” Sloane said without looking up, folding the jacket over the back of a chair. Her voice was low, lazy with contentment, but laced with the knowing pull of flirtation.
Catherine stepped into the room, finally unfastening her coat, letting it fall neatly over the arm of the chair beside Sloane’s. “You’re beautiful,” she said simply.
Sloane stilled for a second, then turned. “Say that again.”
“I said you’re beautiful.”
Sloane walked to her slowly, bare feet soundless against the hardwood floor, her eyes fixed on Catherine’s face. “No one’s ever said it like that before,” she murmured.
“Like what?”
“Like it’s a truth you just discovered. Like you needed to say it out loud to make it real.”
Catherine’s lips curved into a faint, soft smile. “Maybe I did.”
There was a beat of silence. Then Sloane raised her hand and cupped Catherine’s cheek, letting her thumb glide along the edge of her jaw.
“I don’t want tonight to be about goodbyes or nerves or even plans,” she said. “I want it to be about this.”
“This?” Catherine asked, her voice breathy.
“You and me. Here. Now. Just us.”
Catherine leaned in, her forehead resting against Sloane’s. “You’re what home feels like.”
And just like that, the kiss began—not rushed, not desperate. Just slow. Honest. Catherine’s hands slipped around Sloane’s waist, pulling her close, and Sloane’s fingers tangled in Catherine’s hair. Every motion felt like a question answered, every touch a quiet promise.
They undressed each other without urgency, moving like they had all the time in the world. When Catherine lay back on the bed, the way she looked up at Sloane, open, unguarded, made Sloane pause for a second, overwhelmed by the sheer wonder of being loved like this. Of loving like this.
“You okay?” she whispered.
Catherine nodded. “I’ve never been more okay.”
Sloane lowered herself beside her, not over her but with her, bodies aligned. Her hands skimmed down Catherine’s arms, her lips brushing over the hollow of her throat.
“You’ve let me see you,” Sloane said. “All of you. And you’re still the most breathtaking thing I’ve ever known.”
“You’ve taught me how to stay,” Catherine murmured. “And how to be soft without falling apart.”
They moved together slowly, learning each other again, not in the urgent way they once had, but with reverence. With familiarity and wonder all at once. Catherine whispered Sloane’s name like it was a spell. Sloane held her gaze as they found rhythm, as bodies and hearts locked in harmony.
It wasn’t about fireworks. It wasn’t about heat, though there was plenty of that. It was about depth. About trust. About the love they hadn’t dared to name until now.
When they came undone together, hands clasped, breath ragged, Sloane felt Catherine’s grip tighten, her body curling into hers. And in the quiet after, in the hush between heartbeats, Sloane pressed her lips to Catherine’s temple.
“I love you,” she whispered.
Catherine didn’t hesitate. “I love you too.”
Sloane’s eyes burned, but she didn’t cry. Not this time. This time, there was no ache, no fear, no goodbye hiding in the corner of the room.
Only them.
Later, wrapped in the warmth of each other, Catherine rested her head on Sloane’s shoulder and whispered, “Do you still want to go with me?”
Sloane turned to face her, brushing a strand of hair back from her cheek. “To the end of the world and back again.”
Catherine’s laugh was soft, sleep-tinged but sure. “Good. Because I don’t want to find the good in the world without you.”
They stayed there for a long time, limbs tangled, promises held in whispers and quiet touches.They had made it.
Against fear. Against pressure. Against all the reasons they shouldn’t have worked.
And now, together, they would begin again.
Sloane kissed the center of Catherine’s chest, over her heart, and whispered the words she’d waited a lifetime to say with certainty.
“We’re just getting started.”