The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 158

Late into the night, a frantic knock battered Garrison's door.

"Garrison!" Rosemary's voice rang out in panic. "Quinn is sick, you need to come quickly!"

Garrison threw on a robe and yanked the door open. Rosemary stood in the hallway, her hair a mess, zero makeup on her face, the lines around her eyes harshly illuminated by the dim sconces. She was still in her silk sleepwear with a cardigan haphazardly thrown over her shoulders, having clearly bolted straight out of bed.

"What happened?"

"I don't know, she spiked a fever out of nowhere." Rosemary spun on her heel. "Hurry."

Garrison followed her down the hall to Quinn's bedroom.

The door was wide open, every light blazing. His father was already inside, wearing navy pajamas, perched on the edge of the mattress and holding a thermometer. Catching sight of Garrison, he frowned. "A hundred and two point five. She's burning up."

Quinn lay in the center of the bed, her face flushed a feverish scarlet. Her brows were pinched tightly together, and her lips parted slightly as if she were mumbling in her sleep. Her hair was strewn wildly across the pillow, several sweat-soaked strands plastered to her cheeks.

Rosemary sat on the edge of the mattress, pressing the back of her hand against Quinn's forehead. She grabbed a washcloth, dipped it in a basin of warm water, wrung it out, and gently draped it across Quinn's brow.

"Poor thing," her voice dropped to a soothing, heartbroken whisper. "She was perfectly fine this afternoon, how did she get so sick so fast..."

Archie hovered nearby, his little face etched with total anxiety. He leaned against the mattress, whispering, "Quinn? Wake up, Quinn..."

Garrison approached the bed and pressed the back of his hand against her forehead—scalding. He gently lifted her eyelids to check her pupils, found her pulse point at her wrist, then turned to the bedside medical kit, pulled out a rapid fever-reducer, and poured a glass of warm water.

"Let's get some medicine in her and monitor. It's likely just a standard viral fever, nothing to panic over."

His father nodded, taking the blister pack from him to read the dosage, then handing it off to Rosemary.

Rosemary patted Quinn's cheek tenderly. "Quinn? Sweetheart, wake up. You need to take your medicine."

Quinn forced her eyes open in a hazy squint. They were bloodshot and glistening, clearly swollen from crying. Her gaze swept the room before locking onto Garrison, where it stayed fixed.

"Now that you've taken the meds, get some sleep." His voice was entirely neutral, exactly how a physician addresses a patient. "Keep hydrating. The fever should break by morning."

No lingering tenderness. No heartbroken gaze. No "I'll stay right here."

Rosemary's brow furrowed sharply, a reprimand dying on her tongue as she held herself back.

His father threw Garrison a complicated look—a mix of subtle disappointment and resignation.

Quinn stared at Garrison, her lips parting as if desperate to pull a reaction from him. But in the end, she just squeezed her eyes shut. A single teardrop clung to her lashes before sliding tragically down her flushed cheek.

Rosemary swiped the tear away with her thumb and let out a heavy sigh. Easing Quinn back onto the pillows, she tucked the blankets securely around her shoulders and smoothed her hair.

"Go to sleep. I'll stay right here with you," she cooed.

His father stood up, catching Garrison's eye, and the two men walked toward the bedroom door.