Then type back.
Me
Find the messages. The stalker. I want a name.
Three dots pop up. Disappear. Pop up again.
Micah
Working it. Whoever it is, they’re careful. Masking IPs, using burners. But not perfect.
Not perfect is all I need.
Me
Good.
I slip the phone back into my pocket and keep walking.
The sky starts to lighten slow, that early dawn gray bleeding into pale blue across the horizon. The kind of morning that usually feels like a fresh start.
Today?
It just feels heavy.
Because inside that house—alone, in my bed—is the woman I married.
The woman I thought betrayed me.
The one I thought I divorced.
The same damn woman I haven’t stopped thinking about for three goddamn years.
I drag a hand down my face.
“Get your head on straight, you dumb fuck,” I mutter.
Because standing out here thinking about her hair spread across my pillow, her body under my sheets, her breathing slow and even while I pace like a guard dog outside?
That’s not helping anything.
I make one last sweep, then head toward the barn.
Work.
Work I can do.
Work I understand.
The barn doors creak as I push them open, the familiar scent hitting me—hay, feed, animal heat, and something colder from the storage side.
The bulls we brought in last week are already stirring, sensing movement. Big bastards.
Good lines.
Strong frames.
Money.
