The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 476

Usually, when Josh said her name, his tone was bright, clear, and occasionally playful.

But this time, his voice was dangerously low and gravelly, as if dragged from the absolute depths of his chest. Every syllable was coated in a searing, suppressed huskiness.

Sloane's heart completely melted at the sound.

Josh leaned in slowly, firmly closing the distance between them.

His eyelashes lowered, their breaths mingling as his nose gently brushed against hers. Sloane looked into those captivating, tender dark eyes and slowly fluttered her eyes shut.

Just then, a loud buzzing filled the room.

Sloane's phone vibrated violently in her pocket.

They both froze.

Sloane's eyes snapped open, and she stumbled half a step back.

Josh was left frozen in mid-air, his lips less than an inch from hers. Their breaths were still tangled, the air still thick with the unresolved tension they hadn't had time to clear.

The buzzing was piercing in the quiet apartment, like a rock hurled into a calm lake, shattering every ripple.

Sloane looked down and pulled her phone from her pocket. The caller ID flashed brightly on the screen: Garrison.

The moment Josh saw the name "Garrison," his face darkened to the color of storm clouds.

He glared at the name, grinding his teeth, wishing he could snatch the phone and hurl it directly into the trash. It was him again!

He interrupted them at the hospital, at the lake, and now, after a perfect movie date when the mood was finally right—when she hadn't backed away and they were inches apart—this guy's phone call acted as a precision-guided missile. He was a lingering ghost!

Sloane glanced at the screen, then looked up at Josh's furious face.

She hesitated for half a second before her thumb hit the decline button. She flipped the phone face-down on the coffee table and gave Josh a slightly guilty smile.

"What is it?"

Garrison paused, then spoke, his voice incredibly grim.

"Sloane's father has passed away."

*

By the time Sloane and Josh rushed to the hospital, Garrison was already waiting at the entrance.

He was wearing a gray shirt with the collar unbuttoned, the exhaustion in his eyes far heavier than usual.

Seeing Sloane step out of the taxi, he quickly walked over. His lips parted to offer condolences, to say he was sorry, but the words died in his throat.

She stood there wrapped in her black coat, her face deathly pale under the streetlights. Her eyes were filled with grief, confusion, and a familiar, blank devastation of being struck by fate before she could brace for impact.