The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 462

Garrison's heart gave a violent lurch.

The way she looked at him—stripped of her defenses, stripped of the emotional distance—held nothing but a quiet, slightly bewildered earnestness.

He was so close to speaking. He almost blurted out, *Yes, you know me. You were my wife. We had a child together. You slept in a lab in Antarctica for five years, and when you woke up, you forgot I even existed.*

The words were right there on the tip of his tongue. Every syllable felt like a caged beast that had been locked away for far too long, thrashing desperately to break free.

But he didn't say it.

Instead, he raised his hand and used the back of his knuckles to gently tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The touch was impossibly light, like brushing frost off a delicate petal.

"Were you dreaming?"

His voice was pitched low. In the quiet living room, it drifted like a thin mist, dissipating the moment it hung in the air.

Sloane watched him. Something flickered in her obsidian eyes, then slowly dimmed away.

She shook her head, offering no further questions and volunteering no more words.

Maybe the medication was kicking in, or maybe the trauma of hovering between life and death had finally caught up to her. Her eyelids grew heavy, and she slowly drifted off. Rolling onto her side, she buried her face in the throw pillows, her breathing settling into a long, even rhythm.

Garrison sat on the floor beside the sofa, his back against the leg of the coffee table. He didn't close his eyes again.

Outside, the rain fell in a dense drizzle. Inside, the IV fluid dropped steadily. He stayed awake, watching over her through the entire night.

Early the next morning, Garrison checked Sloane's temperature, listened to her heart and lungs, and confirmed her oxygen saturation was back to a safe level before changing into his work clothes to leave for the hospital.

Before leaving, he prepared breakfast and left it on the dining table, sliding a sticky note under the plate. It contained only a few sharp lines: *Meds are on the coffee table. Take after eating. Lunch is in the fridge. Call me immediately if anything feels wrong.*

He didn't sign his full name, only leaving a hastily scribbled "Garrison" at the bottom.

It was almost ten o'clock when Sloane finally woke up.

Garrison lifted his head and saw Jackson Taylor standing in the doorway. He was wearing a crisp navy-blue jacket, his hair neatly combed—he had clearly made an effort to look presentable before coming.

But the sharp jacket couldn't hide his skeletal cheekbones or his deeply sunken eyes. The IV cannula was still taped to the back of his hand, the skin around it bruised an ugly, yellowish-purple.

"You?" Garrison put down his pen, his brows pulling together. "Aren't you receiving treatment at another hospital? Why... are you here?"

Jackson settled into the chair across from the desk. He moved slowly, as if trying to find an angle that didn't shoot pain through his body.

He offered no pleasantries, no small talk. He just stared at Garrison with bloodshot eyes, his voice raw and desperate.

"Garrison, I'm not here for a consultation. I need to show you something."

He pulled his phone from his pocket, his fingers trembling so badly from agitation that it took him several swipes to open the video app.

He placed the phone on the desk and pushed it toward Garrison.