The sharp smell of disinfectant and medicine filled the hospital, making my stomach churn. I pressed a hand against my mouth, fighting the urge to throw up.
“You okay?” Nic asked softly, his hand rubbing small circles on my back.
“I’m fine… I just hate the smell,” I muttered.
“We can lea—”
“Don’t worry, Nic. I’ll be fine.” I cut him off, touching his hand, trying to reassure him.
Before he could say more, a weak, raspy voice drifted from the hospital bed.
“I didn’t know you were into blondes, son.”
I turned, startled. Lying there was an older version of Nic—same eyes, same sharp jaw, only aged and frail. His father. Wires and tubes connected him to humming machines, and a nurse quietly adjusted his IV drip beside him.
“Good day, sir,” I said politely, stepping closer. My eyes scann
