The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 475

Her eyes shimmered with a soft, bright glow under the streetlight.

"Josh."

"Yeah?"

"Can you walk me upstairs?"

Josh froze.

This was the first time she had ever invited him up. Whenever he walked her home before, she would just take her things at the door, tell him to be safe, and head up alone.

He never pushed, and she never asked him to stay.

His hands unconsciously clenched and unclenched inside his coat pockets. Then, he nodded, a tender, solemn smile curving his lips.

"Okay. I'll walk you up," he said.

Josh walked Sloane upstairs. The motion-sensor lights in the old stairwell were slow to react, and their footsteps echoed loudly in the quiet space as they climbed the narrow steps.

The apartment wasn't large, but it was neat and tidy. The pothos plant on the windowsill had climbed halfway up the frame, and moonlight spilled through the vintage steel window panes, painting a faint, silvery sheen across the floor.

"Have a seat. I'll pour you a glass of water."

Sloane tossed her keys onto the entryway cabinet and went into the kitchen.

Josh stood in the center of the living room, watching her bend over to pull a glass from the cupboard, then tip-toe to reach the tea canister on the shelf. The warm, golden light washed over her, wrapping her in a soft, fuzzy halo.

His Sloane, the woman he had looked up to for over a decade, was currently standing in his kitchen, wearing that blue sweater, boiling water to make tea for him.

It felt too surreal, like a dream he had experienced countless times suddenly being brought to life by the gods. He wanted to carve this image into his brain, refusing to miss a single detail.

Her touch was incredibly light, every movement laced with a subconscious tenderness, as if she were afraid of breaking something fragile. Her eyelashes were lowered, casting small shadows on her cheeks, and her lips were pursed, brows furrowed. She looked like she was in more pain than the person who actually got burned.

Josh didn't say a word.

He simply watched her cradle his arm. She was so close, her head bowed, her neck forming a graceful arch.

He could smell the faint scent of shampoo in her hair, could feel the heat of her fingertips through the tissue against his wrist. Press by press, it felt like she was scrambling his pulse.

The longing he had suppressed for so long exploded in his chest.

He reached out and grabbed her wrist.

"Sloane," he murmured. "Can I kiss you?"