The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 115

Rosemary opened her mouth to argue, but Mr. Foster placed a firm hand on her arm. Sharing a loaded glance, the two of them sighed and walked out of the room.

The door shut firmly.

The hospital room descended into total silence.

Garrison slumped against his pillows, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Outside the window, the capital's sky was a dreary gray, framing the distant, jagged silhouettes of skyscrapers. The heavy steel security bars bolted outside the glass made the sterile room feel less like a sanctuary and more like an inescapable cage.

*

The hour grew late.

The corridor was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. A slender silhouette stood outside the hospital room, her hand resting on the handle. The chilled metal pressed against her palm, yet it did nothing to cool the feverish anticipation burning in her chest.

Quinn quietly eased the door open.

Only a single bedside lamp was on, casting a warm, amber halo over the bed. The curtains hadn't been fully drawn, allowing a sliver of moonlight to spill across the pristine white sheets like a dusting of frost.

The heart monitor beeped with rhythmic precision. Beep. Beep. It sounded perfectly synced with the frantic thumping of her own heart.

Quinn's footsteps were feather-light, as if she were walking on clouds.

She crept to the edge of the mattress, gazing down at the sleeping man.

Garrison was lying on his side, facing her direction. His brows were slightly furrowed, suggesting his dreams were anything but peaceful. Freshly broken from his fever, his complexion remained pale, his lips a muted, ashen color with a faint layer of chapping. His incredibly long eyelashes cast soft shadows over his cheekbones, trembling slightly with every breath he took.

The top two buttons of his dress shirt had come undone, exposing the elegant line of his throat and the smooth skin above his collarbone. Glazed with a faint sheen of sweat, it gave this typically cold, authoritative man a sudden, intoxicating vulnerability.

Quinn's heart skipped a beat.

She had seen him in so many different lights—the decisive, brilliant surgeon in the operating room; the distant, unapproachable guardian at home; the eloquent, commanding professor in the lecture hall. But she had never seen him like this.

Fragile. Quiet. Completely defenseless.

He was all hers.

Taking a deep breath, Quinn forced down her venomous jealousy, replacing it with a mask of tender, aching devotion. She stared at his sleeping face, losing track of time. She watched him until the moonlight shifted across the floor, until the heart monitor had ticked hundreds of times.

Then, she spoke, her voice barely louder than a breath.

"Garrison... do you have any idea how long I've waited for this day?"

Her trembling fingers hovered in the air before finally settling on the edge of his blanket, terrified to push further but completely unable to pull away.

"Finally... there's no one standing between us."

She leaned in.

Closer. Closer. So close she could feel the heat of his breath against her skin, so close she could count the individual lashes framing his eyes.

Her heart battered violently against her ribs. Her palms were slick with sweat.

Her lips hovered a mere fraction of an inch above his...