The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 461

Garrison was crouching on the floor, gathering the used iodine swabs and IV packaging to toss into the trash. His hands paused. Tying off the garbage bag, he set it aside, stood up, and walked to the kitchen. He returned with a glass of warm water, placing it on the coffee table within her reach.

"I'm a doctor. It's normal to keep these things at home."

The living room was quiet, filled only by the rhythmic dripping of the IV fluid.

Outside the window, the night wind howled low through the gaps between the buildings.

What Garrison didn't say was this: After Sloane had passed away, before he had bought The Haven Medical Center, he had locked himself in this apartment. Day and night, he had obsessed over The Vitas Strain.

No colleagues, no friends, no family. Just endless piles of experimental data and cold surgical instruments.

Once, he had worked for three days and three nights straight. A flare-up of his stomach condition, combined with severe hypoglycemia, had sent him crashing to the living room floor. His forehead had clipped the edge of the coffee table, leaving a pool of blood on the hardwood.

By the time he regained consciousness, it was noon the next day. The coffee in the mug on the table had grown mold. The cut on his forehead had scabbed over, and the blood on the floor had dried into a dark, rusty crimson.

Since then, he had kept all this equipment and medication stocked. He was terrified that if he died, no one would be left to continue the research on The Vitas Strain.

And no one would be left to save Sloane...

"The IV will take about two hours."

Garrison nudged the glass of water a little closer to her hand. He stood up and dimmed the living room lights.

"Get some sleep. I'll be right here. Let me know the second you feel uncomfortable."

*

Sloane drifted into a hazy sleep.

Drop by drop, the medication flowed into her veins, slowly reknitting the strength she had lost to the freezing water.

Just that tiny movement—something so slight it was almost imperceptible—made Garrison's eyes snap open. He had clearly been jolted from a deep sleep, his gaze still clouded with a hazy fog he hadn't yet cleared. In the warm, dim light, his amber irises looked like polished gemstones rinsed in water...

He blinked, his lashes sweeping away the fog. Propping himself up slightly, his voice came out husky and soft, carrying that distinct morning-gravel depth mixed with unfiltered concern. "Are you... feeling worse somewhere?"

Sloane stared at him.

Half his face was bathed in the floor lamp's golden glow; the other half was hidden in the shadows.

His eyes hadn't completely focused yet, but they instinctively searched for hers.

She didn't answer his question. She just kept staring into those hazy, amber eyes... A long time passed before she finally spoke, her voice barely a whisper.

"Garrison, did I... know you before?"