Not how have you been.
Not why the fuck do you still look like so goddamn good.
Just the question that matters.
Her lips part, and for one split second I see it.
That flicker of hurt.
That moment of doubt.
That old softness.
That old wound.
Then it’s gone, and her face shuts down.
“I need you to sign something,” she says, lifting a manila folder like that’s all this is.
Business. Paperwork.
Clean and simple, and not the reason I can’t get a full breath into my lungs.
My jaw locks harder.
“Send it through a lawyer.”
“I tried,” she shoots back. “You don’t take my letters. My emails get sent to spam. You won’t take any of my damn calls. Remember?”
That one lands.
Small hit. Sharp sting.
I flinch, just a little.
Probably no one sees it but me.
But I feel it all the same.
“Not my problem,” I mutter.
The second the words leave my mouth, I know they’re a lie.
Everything about her standing here—on my land, in front of my house, looking at me like she still expects something—is my problem.
But I say it anyway.
Because it’s easier than admitting anything else.
Her eyes flash, bright and hot, and there—there she is.
The woman I married.
The one who never backed down.
The one who met me head-on every damn time I pushed too far.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” she shoots back, her voice sharp enough to cut.
