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He called at midnight and asked why I couldn’t sleep. Then he offered to fix it. The sheriff — 42, silver-haired, scarred in ways he won’t talk about — talked me through an orgasm over the phone and then stayed on the line for an hour, just listening to me breathe. The next morning I found a tiny paper rose tucked in my hair with a note inside. He’d written the dirtiest thing he said to me last night. That’s when I knew I was in serious trouble.