The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 427

"Wait, Dr. Foster. Why were you even here in the first place?"

Garrison's footsteps hitched. He pulled his hand out of his pocket, then shoved it right back in, his tone trying desperately for casual. "I was working late at the hospital. I just happened to be passing by."

Sloane glanced at her phone—10:20 PM. She looked back toward the direction he had come from. That route didn't lead from Haven Medical Center, nor did it head toward his own apartment.

"Dr. Foster... you don't even live in this neighborhood, do you?"

Garrison went dead silent for two agonizing seconds. The air was so quiet they could hear the raindrops sliding off the tree leaves and hitting the pavement.

"I took a detour. For a walk."

It was a lie so spectacularly bad he probably didn't even believe it himself.

Sloane looked at him. Under the harsh streetlights, his hair was plastered to his forehead, his shoulders completely soaked through—he had clearly been standing in the freezing rain for a long time. But she didn't push it. Exposing the lie would just make things unbearable for both of them. She hoisted her bag up and offered a polite nod.

"Thank you again, Dr. Foster. I'm going up now. Goodnight."

She turned and walked through the rusted iron gate. The motion-sensor lights flickered on, casting a warm, safe glow over the stairwell.

Garrison stood under the streetlamp, watching her climb the stairs step by step. He didn't move an inch until the light clicked on in the third-floor window. Only then did he pull his hand out of his pocket and slowly uncurl his fingers.

Pressed deep into his palm were four bleeding, crescent-shaped indentations from his own nails.

*

Sloane got back to her apartment, took a rapid, boiling-hot shower, threw her muddy clothes into a basin to soak, and collapsed into bed before her hair was even completely dry.

The rain had started up again, tapping an erratic, chaotic lullaby against the glass. The second her head hit the pillow, she was dragged down into a heavy, suffocating sleep.

And then, she dreamed.

She was lying in a place that was unbearably cold.

And then, a figure appeared.

She saw the silhouette in the reflection of the ice first—blurry, warped by the frozen surface. She couldn't see a face, only the outline of a man striding toward her.

His footsteps were heavy, urgent, echoing like thunder against the ice. He dropped to his knees in front of her and immediately hauled her into his arms.

He was so warm.

In this dead, frozen wasteland where even the air felt solid, his body heat was the only thing keeping her alive. It seeped into her skin, melting the ice in her bones piece by agonizing piece. He crushed her against his chest, her ear pressed right over his heart, listening to the heavy, frantic, booming rhythm of his heartbeat.

And then, the man spoke.

"Darling, it's okay. You're not cold anymore."

"I'm here to take you home."