The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 77

By the time he returned to the room carrying the heavy takeout bags, it was almost nine o'clock. Sloane was sitting up in bed, reading a book about Antarctica. Seeing him enter, she set the book aside.

Garrison didn't say a word. He just pulled up the overbed table and unpacked the containers one by one.

The savory glaze of the roast chicken, the vibrant green of the asparagus, the rich cheese, the steaming steak, the comforting creamy soup, the bright yellow of the lemon tart... The small table was packed to the brim.

"I didn't know what you liked," Garrison murmured, keeping his head down. "So I got a bit of everything. See what you want."

Sloane stared at the dazzling spread of food, her gaze pausing on the creamy soup for a second.

"I don't have much of an appetite. Just some soup is fine." She reached out for the bowl.

Garrison's hand was faster.

He picked up the bowl and spoon, scooped up a small amount, blew on it gently near the edge of the bowl to cool it down, and held it to her lips.

Sloane was dumbfounded.

She stared at Garrison in utter bewilderment. In five years of marriage, he had never once shown this level of care.

The spoon hovered right in front of her. Garrison didn't rush her; he just looked at her quietly. The hospital lighting cascaded over his face, softening the usually cold, distant look in his eyes into something she had never seen before—gentleness.

Sloane instinctively opened her mouth, and the warm soup slid down her throat.

It was rich, savory, and the perfect temperature.

Garrison scooped up another spoonful, blew on it just like before, and offered it to her again.

Sloane looked at him, feeling something bump softly against the walls of her heart. In five years of marriage, he had never fed her like this. He had never been this patient, this attentive, treating her as if she were made of fragile glass.

The next second, she broke into a violent coughing fit. The soup she had just swallowed felt like it was trapped in her windpipe. She clutched her chest, bent over, and coughed so hard it felt like her lungs were tearing apart. Her face instantly flushed red as tears poured uncontrollably from her eyes.

"Cough... cough..."

"Sloane!" Garrison panicked. He leaped up, leaned over, and began patting her back. His movements were gentle but urgent. With his other hand, he grabbed a tissue and carefully wiped away the specks of soup she coughed up as she struggled to breathe.

"It's okay, it's okay..." he murmured soothingly. He moved his hand from her back to her shoulders, wrapping his arms around her delicately, terrified of hurting her.

Watching her body tremble violently, feeling how icy and fragile she was—like a leaf that could be blown away at any moment—a professional medical term instantly flashed through Dr. Foster's mind.

PTSD.

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.