The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 376

Garrison took a week off and didn't return to the hospital until seven days later.

Sloane was sitting on her bed reading a book. Hearing the door push open, she looked up and almost didn't recognize him at first glance.

Dr. Foster had lost a significant amount of weight.

His white coat hung looser on his frame, the shoulder seams drooping half an inch, which only made him look taller and sharper. His jawline was even more pronounced than a week ago, carved with clean, precise lines, yet betraying a subtle exhaustion.

What caught Sloane's attention most was his scent—a faint trace of tobacco had replaced his usual pleasant, clean soap smell.

Sloane didn't like the smell of smoke.

And she didn't really like... this strange older man.

Almost instinctively, she shrank back, pressing herself against the raised headboard. She pulled the book closer to her chest like a tiny shield.

Garrison didn't seem to notice.

He walked to the side of the bed, picked up the medical chart hanging at the foot, and flipped it open with his usual efficiency. His eyes scanned every line of data, his pupils darting in a trained rhythm, betraying zero emotion.

"How are you feeling today?" he asked, his voice raspier than it had been a week ago.

"I'm okay," Sloane replied.

Garrison gave a curt nod, placed the chart back, and began his examination.

He used his stethoscope to listen to her heart and lungs, having her take deep breaths; he shined a penlight into her eyes to check her pupillary response; he had her extend her arms for the finger-to-nose test, then laid her flat to tap her reflexes with a reflex hammer...

Every movement was as precise as a textbook demonstration, but when he lifted her eyelids, Sloane felt his fingertips trembling slightly.

The exam concluded.

He looked at Sloane.

His gaze was far too heavy, far too intense for a doctor looking at a patient. It held the sheer relief of having survived an endlessly long night, mingled with something Sloane didn't want to decipher—something far too soft, far too raw, wrapped inside those bloodshot eyes like a fragile, shelled egg waiting to be caught.

"Thank you, Dr. Foster," Sloane said.

Her tone was composed, polite, and proper, as if she were thanking a stranger for picking up a dropped subway ticket.

Garrison stood there, his chest rising and falling. Then, he opened his arms and leaned slightly toward her.

He wanted to hug her.

Sloane saw the wind-up to the movement—his shoulders shifted forward half an inch, his right arm rising from his side, fingers slightly parted, reaching toward her back.

The gesture wasn't even halfway complete before she recognized his intent.