He pauses, then understands immediately. He draws a slow breath through his nose and nods once, agitation returning at full volume. “You didn’t want her to panic.”
“I didn’t want her to start connecting the dots out loud where anyone could hear,” I reply, and as the words leave my mouth, I realize I’ve been thinking like someone under surveillance.
Ethan’s posture stiffens. “You think it was on purpose.”
“I don’t know,” I answer, forcing honesty even though it tastes awful. “I only know how it felt.”
He drags a hand through his hair, his fingers trembling. “The note. And the apartment door.”
My throat tightens. The compromised lock. The subtle misalignment. The sensation that my space had been tested.
“I don’t want to overreact.”
He leans in, his voice dropping into a fierce whisper. “You don’t get to decide what counts as an overreaction when your door looks like someone tried to get inside and your brakes stop working in traffic.”
My chest tightens, not from the bruising but from the truth in his tone.
“I don’t know if it’s connected,” I tell him, keeping my voice low. “I don’t know if it’s coincidence. I don’t know if I’m projecting fear onto mechanical failure.”
Ethan stares at me, breathing harder, and I watch him fight between logic and emotion. His eyes move to the sutures again, the bruising creeping under my collar, and the monitor beside me as if it’s proof that logic failed.
His phone buzzes in his pocket. He ignores it.
“Did anyone follow you?” he asks, and his eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that makes it hard to look away.
My stomach drops. I hesitate too long.
Ethan catches it immediately. “Rowan.”
“There was an SUV behind me,” I admit. “Black. It followed for a few turns, then it turned off.”
Ethan goes still. Not calm or relaxed but locked in place like his body is bracing for impact.
“Did you get a plate number?” he demands.
“No.” My voice comes out flat with regret. “I was focused on driving.”
He exhales hard, then leans closer. “Do you think they messed with your brakes and followed you to watch it happen?”
My skin prickles, and my mouth dries again.
“I don’t want to assume,” I answer, and the words feel inadequate even as I speak them. “I want facts.”
Ethan straightens, and I can see him reaching for a plan. He looks toward the curtain, then back to me. “I’m calling Mom.”
“No,” I reply instantly, and pain sparks through my cheek when my face tightens. “Don’t.”
Ethan’s eyes widen. “Why?”
“Because she’ll panic and drive herself here,” I answer, keeping my voice urgent but even. “Because she’ll call every person she knows. Because she won’t sleep again for a week. I need imaging back first. I need to know I’m actually okay.”
Ethan holds my gaze, then nods once, reluctantly. “Fine. But you’re not leaving this hospital alone.”
I start to respond, but the curtain moves. A presence fills the doorway before the fabric slides fully aside, and my chest tightens in recognition that lands somewhere between shock and an unwanted rush of heat.
Kiren steps into the bay.
He looks out of place in a trauma room, not because he’s dressed too well, but because he carries himself like he owns the space without trying to. Dark jacket, black shirt, no tie, hair neat, face composed. His eyes find mine immediately, and the air changes again, tension rising, and my body reacts before my mind decides what to do with him.
