The drive to the hospital was silent.
Not the comfortable silence from earlier—the fragile truce we’d almost formed in his bed—but something colder. Sharper. Charged with impending violence.
Adrian drove himself.
He never drove himself.
The city lights streaked past us in blurred lines of gold and white. His jaw was tight, one hand steady on the steering wheel, the other resting near his phone on the console.
“Talk to me,” I said, my voice barely steady.
“I am.”
“You’re not.”
His gaze stayed on the road. “Security reported an attempted breach into the restricted patient database. It was blocked.”
“My father’s file?”
“Yes.”
“Who would do that?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
That scared me more than anything.
“Adrian.”
“I don’t know yet.”
“You do,” I pressed.
His fingers tig
