The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 393

The moment the car doors slammed shut, sealing away the roar of the rain, the cabin plunged into total silence.

Sloane briefly inspected the interior. It was a perfectly ordinary EV—gray fabric seats, a modest center console screen, and a phone mount clipped to the air vent.

It looked nothing like the luxury car she imagined a hospital director would drive. Especially someone who had won The Nobel Prize in Medicine...

"Where are you going now?"

Garrison started the engine. The dashboard screen flickered to life, and the heater automatically kicked on. The warm air blowing through the vents slowly brought the feeling back to Sloane's frozen fingers. "I can drive you."

Sloane paused, a little surprised. She had fully expected him to forcefully haul her back to the hospital.

"Why aren't you forcing me back to the ward?"

Garrison offered a weary, self-deprecating smile. "Even if I took you back, you'd just leave again. A flimsy hospital bracelet isn't going to hold you."

Sloane went silent.

Was he hoping she'd reimburse him for the hospital bracelet too?

She carefully placed her cello in the back seat and buckled up. Hesitating for a moment, she finally spoke. "I need to find an apartment."

Garrison's hand paused on the steering wheel. The orange glow from the dashboard highlighted his profile, catching the faint streaks of rainwater still drying on his face.

"I actually... have a vacant apartment."

"No thank you," Sloane replied instantly.

Garrison pressed his lips together, choosing not to push it. "Then I can help you look for a realtor. But it's too late tonight. We'll have to wait until tomorrow."

He put the car in drive, the engine humming silently as the navigation mapped out the route to his home.

The fine mist drifted diagonally under the streetlamps, leaving a few amber beads of water clinging to the windshield. Garrison killed the engine and turned his head.

Sloane was fast asleep, her head tilted awkwardly against the seat. The seatbelt lay diagonally across her chest, her hoodie slightly bunched up around her neck. Her breathing was steady, her eyelashes fluttering occasionally. In sleep, she looked entirely different—stripped of her defenses and her cold distance. She was like a heavy door that had finally been left unlatched.

A bittersweet warmth bloomed in Garrison's chest.

He lifted his hand, his fingertips hovering just an inch from her cheek. He traced the delicate curve of her brow in the air, terrified to actually make contact. He desperately wanted to touch her, but he didn't dare.

Just then, Sloane's eyelashes fluttered, and she slowly opened her eyes. Sitting up, she rubbed the corner of her mouth, her voice raspy from sleep. "Are we here?"

Garrison pulled his gaze away, resting his hands back on the wheel. His lips twitched, ultimately forming the faintest suggestion of a smile.

"We're here."