“Tomorrow morning, Layla will give me a progesterone injection. It should make this…” I gesture at myself like I’m a magician’s assistant. He takes it as an invitation and studies me from head to toe, tracks my every fidget, follows the rocking of my heels. “She hopes it’ll make it go away. But she didn’t have it at the office, so…” He doesn’t bother hiding the depth of his scowl, even if he eventually nods. “Are you okay with that?” I scratch the back of my neck, which feels swollen. Tender. “If you have any objections—” “None that are rational.” His smile is slim, self-effacing. His words
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