The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 394

Sloane followed Garrison through the front door.

The motion-sensor light in the entryway flicked on, bathing the hallway in a warm, inviting yellow glow.

She stood at the threshold, looking over Garrison's shoulder, and her first thought was that the place felt incredibly comfortable.

It wasn't the sterile, cold luxury of a staged showroom. It radiated a quiet, deeply lived-in coziness. The living room featured pale gray walls, a cream fabric sofa, a raw wood coffee table, a floor lamp with a linen shade, and matching flaxen curtains.

The entire apartment was decorated in a serene, perfectly balanced Nordic style. Sloane had actually thought about this exact aesthetic multiple times, dreaming that if she ever had her own home, she would decorate it exactly like this.

"Do you... live here alone?" she asked, lingering by the door.

Garrison bent down and pulled a pair of guest slippers from the shoe cabinet, placing them near her feet. They were soft gray cotton—clean, brand new, with the tags still attached.

"I do now."

He straightened up, shrugging off his soaked jacket and draping it over his arm. His tone betrayed zero emotion.

Sloane slipped into the shoes and walked toward the center of the living room, taking in her surroundings.

Her gaze drifted from the sofa to the coffee table, past the reading lamp to the vintage record player. The more she looked, the more she felt that this style totally contradicted the Garrison Foster she knew.

The doctor in her mind was a creature of cold tones—crisp white coats, stainless steel instruments, flawlessly organized medical charts. But this apartment was warm. It had a soul. It was a space that had been lovingly curated by someone.

"So, this decor," she asked, turning to face him. "Did you pick this out?"

Garrison fell silent for two seconds. He stood under the living room lights, still dripping wet, the water stains spreading from his collar down to his collarbone. He looked pale, but his expression remained painfully composed.

"My ex-wife decorated it."

Sloane raised an eyebrow, quickly forcing her features back into neutral territory.

Sloane followed behind him.

The hallway was short. The bathroom was on the left, and on the right were two doors.

As she passed the first door on the right, her footsteps faltered. The door was shut, and... it was locked?

It wasn't a standard handle lock. It was a heavy, external brass padlock. It wasn't overly large, but it was striking. The brass was polished to a high shine, gleaming coldly under the dim hallway sconces.

Every other door in the hallway was wide open, but this one was sealed tight and locked down.

Sloane stared at the padlock, a spark of curiosity igniting in her chest, but she bit her tongue.

It was 3:30 a.m., she was crashing in a stranger's apartment, and she was alone with a man she genuinely disliked—a man she had just called a psycho. Grilling him about a locked room right now was probably not the smartest idea.