Page 101 of Dr. Catherine Harrington
She still rolled her eyes at anything resembling emotional vulnerability, but she’d taken to checking in on Sloane’s gallery shows, always under the guise of “networking” or “supporting the arts,” never admitting she actually enjoyed the pieces. But she always left with something new for her office wall.
The Harringtons were far from picture-perfect. But they were healing. Not as a whole, but in the connections that mattered.
And Catherine, once the loneliest woman in the room, was now never alone.
The sky was a canvas of dusky lavender and gold, the final brushstrokes of a spring day softening into night. The stars blinked alive overhead, one by one, as Catherine stepped out onto the back patio with two mugs of tea and a small velvet box tucked into her pocket.
Sloane was already outside, curled up on the porch swing wrapped in a light blanket, sketchpad on her lap. Her pencil moved in steady lines, catching the curve of a flower or the bend of Catherine’s shadow from across the patio.
Catherine handed her a mug and slipped down beside her. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. There was no need. The silence was easy now, companionship humming beneath every breath, every glance, every small gesture.
Sloane finally looked over. “You’re doing that thing where you think so loudly it practically echoes.”
Catherine smiled faintly. “I was thinking about us.”
Sloane’s eyes sparkled. “A safe subject, I hope.”
“The safest,” Catherine said, voice low.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out the small box. No grand speeches. No orchestrated proposal. Just something simple and real.
Sloane’s breath caught as Catherine opened it to reveal a delicate ring, white gold with a single blue sapphire at its center.
Catherine’s hand trembled slightly. “I’ve done a lot of things out of fear. Out of legacy. Out of duty. But you’re the first thing I’ve ever chosen just because I wanted to.”
Sloane didn’t say anything at first. Her eyes shimmered. Then she slipped the sketchpad aside, took the ring, and pressed a kiss to Catherine’s palm.
“You’re not just something I wanted, Catherine,” Sloane said softly. “You’re everything I didn’t know I needed. And I’d say yes to you a hundred times over.”
They stood together, hand in hand, as the wind moved gently through the garden, rustling the petals of wildflowers they’d planted side by side last summer.
They had made their own home. Their own rhythm. Their own kind of forever.
Later, as they lay in bed, Catherine’s head on Sloane’s chest, fingers tracing idle circles on her skin, Catherine whispered the words they hadn’t said in a while, but had always lived beneath everything else.
“We’ve made our own legacy.”
Sloane kissed the top of her head. “And it’s better than I ever imagined.”
Outside, the stars blinked their quiet approval. And inside, wrapped in each other’s arms, Catherine and Sloane didn’t just dream about the future.
They were living it.
