The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 392

Garrison's voice was hoarse and incredibly low, almost entirely drowned out by the rain, but Sloane heard him.

She saw his lips still trembling slightly after he spoke. Raindrops clung to his thick eyelashes, but the overwhelming surge of emotion in his eyes was heavier than she had ever seen.

Standing under the safety of her umbrella, Sloane looked at him and let out a helpless sigh.

"Dr. Foster," she said. "How did you even find this place?"

Garrison stood in the downpour, the rain streaming down his forehead, tracing the bridge of his nose, and dripping past his lips.

He brought a hand up and wiped his face. The movement was slow, as if it bought his brain a few crucial seconds to reboot.

"I... I checked the map. I searched every diner in the area that stays open late."

Sloane stared at him, stunned.

"You searched every diner in the area?" she asked in disbelief, taking in the sight of the soaking wet man with bloodless lips. "There must be dozens of them around here."

Garrison shook his head. "Not that many. Only twenty-three."

The water flew from his hair as he nodded, splattering onto his own ruined shoes.

"Dr. Foster,"

Sloane took a deep breath, swapping the umbrella handle to her other hand. "Are you out of your mind?"

"I really don't like you, so please stop relentlessly harassing me. Leaving the hospital was my own choice. You have no right to—"

"You haven't paid your medical bills."

Garrison delivered the sentence flatly. It wasn't a demand, nor was it a threat. It sounded more like he was simply stating a fact that had just popped into his head.

Leaving a man who looked like a drowned rat standing out in the rain at 3:00 a.m.—especially when she literally owed him thousands of dollars—felt incredibly inhumane.

"Get under here," she sighed, tilting the umbrella forward to shield his head. "It's pouring."

Garrison looked up, his pale face illuminated, his amber eyes gazing at her cautiously. Slowly, he reached out and took the umbrella handle from her grip.

As he did, his fingers brushed against hers—just a fleeting graze of skin, brief as a breath—but Sloane felt the temperature immediately. It wasn't just cold. It was ice.

It was as if his blood had frozen solid in the storm, dragging the warmth right out of his fingertips.

She didn't say another word, quickly shoving her hand deep into the pocket of her hoodie.

They walked back to his car sharing the umbrella. Technically they were sharing it, but Garrison tilted the vast majority of the canopy over her, leaving half of his own body exposed to the downpour.

He pulled open the passenger door, waiting for her to settle in before he walked around to the driver's side, collapsed the umbrella, and slid inside.