Pain.

That was the first thing I felt before anything else. A sharp, pulsing ache behind my eyes like someone had been playing drums in my skull. My limbs were heavy, my throat dry. The sterile scent of antiseptic filled my nose.

Where... am I?

I forced my eyes open, squinting against the harsh white light above me. A ceiling. A beeping monitor. Tubes. I was in a hospital. But I didn’t remember how I got here. Or why.

Then footsteps.

Fast. Urgent. And then him.

He burst through the door like something out of a dream I didn’t know I was having. Tall, broad shoulders, dark tousled hair, and eyes that looked like they’d seen a thousand storms. Eyes that were staring straight at me — glassy, wide, and glistening with unshed tears.

“Oh my god…” he breathed, rushing to my side. He grabbed my hand so gently, like I might disappear if he held too tight. His gaze flickered down my body, checking every inch as if making sure I was whole. Alive.

“How are you?” he whispered, voice rough and trembling.

I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

And just like that, he turned away.

My eyes followed him, confused, dazed, and then landed on the other man standing silently in the corner of the room — a doctor, dressed in crisp white, his face unreadable.

The handsome stranger faced him, jaw tight, fists clenched at his sides.

The doctor’s voice cut through the silence like a blade.

“Why,” he said coldly, “was my mom not answering my questions?”

Time stopped.

Mom?

Me?