The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 340

When Garrison Foster pushed open the hospital room door with an insulated bag in hand, Sloane Taylor was leaning against the headboard, flipping through an old magazine Lexi Lowery had left for her.

The issue was from 2016, and she didn't recognize a single celebrity on the cover, but the text next to them read "2016's Best Newcomer"—that was ten years ago.

"Let's eat first."

Garrison placed the bag on the nightstand, unzipped it, and pulled out the containers one by one. He lined them up—a bowl of oatmeal, boiled greens, baked fish, clear chicken broth, a small side of pickles, and a glass of warm milk. Everything was meticulously portioned: the greens perfectly crisp, the fish lean, and a few goji berries floating in the soup.

"I didn't know what you liked, so I got a little bit of everything," he said.

Sloane stared down at the row of containers for a long time.

Oatmeal, boiled greens, baked fish, chicken broth—it was the exact same nutritional meal plan she used to eat during her training days.

Low oil, low sodium, high protein; every bite was engineered for muscle and endurance, every calorie strictly calculated, and absolutely none of it tasted good.

She looked up, asking in a testing tone, "Do you have any spicy buffalo wings?"

Garrison's movements faltered, his fork suspended in mid-air.

It took him a moment to realize that the girl in front of him wasn't his understanding, mature wife, but a college student full of eccentric cravings.

He turned to look at her, his brows furrowing slightly. "You just woke up, and your body hasn't recovered yet. You can't eat spicy buffalo wings."

"Boring," Sloane muttered under her breath.

She glanced over the bland spread of plates and bowls, pointing at the oatmeal. "I'll just have that."

She raised her right hand to grab the bowl, but the hemostatic bandage was still taped to the back of her hand. The moment she bent her fingers, it tugged at the puncture wound, and she gasped in pain.

She switched to her left hand, but it wasn't steady either. After being bedridden for so long, her fine motor skills hadn't fully returned. The spoon trembled the second she picked it up, spilling two drops of oatmeal onto the blanket.

Garrison reached out. "Let me."

Sloane couldn't bear to imagine how many days and nights this weirdo had sat quietly by her bed while she was in a coma, just staring at her. Or... what else he might have done to her!

"I... I'm not really used to strangers feeding me. And—" She leveled a fearless, youthful glare at him. "Dr. Foster, every time you look at me, your eyes get weird. It's like I owe you something."

Garrison was speechless.

"Fine, I'll leave."

He placed the bowl back on the nightstand. Without another word, he stood up, walked to the door, and pulled it open.

Out in the hallway, Cassandra Jenson was leaning against the wall, playing a game on her phone. Seeing him step out, she immediately stood up straight. "What's wrong?"

"Go in there and feed her," Garrison ordered.

"Why?" Cassandra looked thoroughly displeased; her game was right at the critical moment.