The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 397

He had promised her, and he had delivered.

*

Without him noticing, the sky outside had begun to lighten into a pale grayish-blue. A cool, thin beam of morning light slipped through the gap in the curtains, tracing the sharp outlines of the furniture in the room.

Garrison hadn't slept a wink, so he finally just got out of bed.

He walked out of the bedroom, pausing for a fraction of a second in the hallway as he passed the other locked door—the room they used to share, the space where she used to live.

He stared at the heavy brass padlock before stepping past it and walking into the kitchen.

The refrigerator light flicked on, casting a harsh white glow over his exhausted face.

He pulled out some eggs, a tomato, and scallions from the crisper, then grabbed a pack of spaghetti from the pantry.

As he nudged the fridge door shut, he set the ingredients on the counter and leaned his weight onto his hands for a few seconds. His stomach was still twinging, but it was far more manageable than last night.

Straightening up, he cracked an egg against the rim of a bowl, the sharp sound echoing crisply in the quiet morning air. He dropped the yolk in, grabbed a fork, and began whisking it at a steady, unhurried pace. The metal tines clinking against the ceramic created a soothing, rhythmic chime.

Outside, the dawn was rapidly giving way to a bright new day...

*

Sloane was pulled from her sleep by an incredible smell.

It wasn't the sterile scent of hospital disinfectant mixed with the depressing aroma of microwaved cafeteria food. It was a grounding, comforting scent of real domestic life—the rich aroma of eggs sizzling until the edges turned crispy, the sharp fragrance of scallions hitting hot oil, and the deep, hearty smell of slow-cooked oatmeal.

It felt incredibly strange. She had never slept at Garrison's apartment before, but every single metric of this bed felt as if it had been custom-tailored precisely for her.

She threw off the covers, her bare feet hitting the floorboards, and followed the mouth-watering scent out to the dining room.

The sight on the dining table stopped her dead in her tracks.

A pale gray linen placemat was laid out, set with two lavish breakfast portions.

In the center was a plate of perfectly fried eggs, their whites slightly crisped at the edges, the yolks still soft and gleaming. Next to it was a platter of thinly sliced roast beef, meticulously arranged in a fan shape. A small basket held beautifully toasted bread, accompanied by fresh butter and a jar of homemade strawberry jam.

There were two bowls of thick, creamy oatmeal, flanked by an array of savory sides—roasted green beans, a light salad, and two flawlessly poached eggs.

To top it all off, a freshly brewed pot of coffee sat nearby, emitting a rich, fragrant steam.