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On top of that, he’s college-educated, smart, articulate, and a genuinely nice guy. When he says good morning and asks about my weekend, it’s not just something he says in passing. He actually waits for me to respond. If I talk about a video game, he asks about it. If I talk about shopping with the girls, he asks if I bought anything fun.

I can’t remember any guy in my past who made me feel seen. Heard. Like I matter. I know it’s a professional relationship, because he seems to be like that with everyone at Shadow Security, but it’s still a refreshing change.

Sadly, guys like Rage don’t date women like me. He might want to sleep with me, but I’m not in the market for a one-time hookup. I wouldn’t do that with Rage anyway, because he’s just too magnificent for words. Not to mention a co-worker. I don’t think there would be anything casual about hooking up with him. Too bad. Because I’d love to make a baby with him. Build on our friendship…

Oh well.

A girl can dream.

I get all the carbonara and whatever else was clinging to my skin and hair off in the shower and dry off. I don’t bother blow drying my hair and stick it in a ponytail. I can’t be bothered with makeup either, not after the night I’ve had. And if I’m going to pull an all-nighter, I’m more interested in comfort. That’s why I’m glad I had a pair of yoga pants and an oversized T-shirt in my locker, along with undergarments and sneakers.

My foot is sore and swollen just enough to force me to loosen the laces on that sneaker. I probably shouldn’t even bother since I need to ice it, but I don’t want to walk around barefoot either.

“You ready, Luna?” Rage’s voice is loud in the empty locker room, and I jump.

“Yeah, I’m coming.”

“I told you I was going to wrap your foot,” he says, walking in.

He’s so…big, standing there looking down at me.

Then he squats and reaches for my foot for the second time tonight.

And I’m a little awestruck by it.

How gentle his hands are. How careful he is as he removes my sock and starts to wrap the ankle expertly. Like he’s done this before.

“Not your first time wrapping an ankle,” I comment wryly.

He chuckles. “Not hardly. I wound up working as an unofficial medic on my last tour in the Middle East. I learned a lot.”

“I see that.”

“There.” He puts my foot down and looks up. “That should give you support. I’m not sure how you’re going to get the sneaker on but once you’re at your station, you don’t need to worry about it.”

“Thank you,” I say sincerely. “Tonight was just… a disaster.”

“I’m sorry you had to deal with all that,” he says, sinking onto the bench next to me.

“The whole night was a bust anyway,” I say with a shrug. “I thought maybe we were going to take the relationship to the next level but he obviously isn’t ready.”

“That’s his loss,” he says softly.

I smile sadly. “I guess. I’m just running out of time.”

He cocks his head. “For what?”

“To have a baby,” I say without looking at him. “I want to be a mom. But I’m thirty-five and also have PMOS, which is⁠—”

“Polyendocrine Metabolic Ovarian Syndrome.”

I blink, stunned. “How did…”

“I read,” he says solemnly. “It was all over the place when they changed the name from PCOS to PMOS, so I was curious.”

“Oh.” I don’t know how to respond to that. “Well, getting pregnant will probably be difficult so I need to start now. I mean, I don’t know how long it will take me.”

“Women are having babies well into their forties these days.”