I hated this place. I hated everything about it. The bland scent of antiseptic, the too-bright lighting, and the whisper of worried voices in sterile halls. But what I hated more than anything was the fact that Conan—my Conan—was here. In the maternity ward. Without telling me a goddamn thing.
I would've missed it if Charlie hadn't pushed me to keep that tracking app. I almost deleted it last week, figuring Conan's daily park-to-home loop was harmless. But today, his route changed. And that alone had me tearing down the road like my tail was on fire.
The moment I stormed into the clinic, I was met by some receptionist who tried to stop me. "Sir, we're not taking walk-ins—"
I ignored her. My eyes had already landed on Conan's jacket slung over the waiting room chair.
Then I saw him.
That damn human.
I spotted Conan standing beside him just as a doctor stepped out, calling, "Conan Moss!"
"Fuck, he really came," Conan muttered.
