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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

P aul sat on the edge of his bed. The glow from his phone cast a soft light across the dark room. The rest of the world had gone still. There was just the occasional hiss from the heater and the muffled groan of wind slipping past the eaves.

The baby was back with the mayor and Bunny. The office was locked up. His work inbox was blissfully silent after a busy day. But his mind was loud.

There’d been three school meetings, two home visits, and a heated call with a foster parent who didn’t understand why a twelve-year-old might hoard granola bars under the bed.

Then there was the mountain of paperwork: safety assessments, case notes, resource referrals, and the dreaded progress reports due by Monday.

He’d reviewed a custody request flagged for suspicion and taken a call from a guidance counselor about a student showing signs of neglect.

All of it necessary. All of it important. All of it exhausting.

But none of it compared to the echo of Birdy’s voice in his head. Or the weight of what he hadn’t told her at the coffee shop. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, phone cradled in the other, thumb hovering over the message app.

Birdy Chou—Mobile

It was still surreal seeing her name like that. It stared back at him in bold black letters, so official. So close. He hadn’t heard back from the email. No surprise.

Still… he wanted to try again. This time in a language she spoke fluently: the language of precision. And maybe a little provocation. He opened a new message and started typing.

PAUL:

Here's my issue with The Justice Paradox . The verdict felt rushed. The way the author structured the courtroom scenes? That was masterful. She wrote chaos like someone who craves control.

He paused. Deleted the last line. It was too obvious. He typed again.

PAUL:

You said it was about the cost of telling the truth. I can see your point now. You were right.

Another pause. He could stop there. He should stop there. He knew that's what she was craving: validation. Instead, he added:

PAUL:

You were right about the truth-telling. But tell me why I’m wrong about the rest of it.

He read it over twice. Three times. Then he hit send.

The phone made a soft whoosh. The sound was final and weightless, like a bird taking off before its captor could change their mind. Paul set the phone on the nightstand and leaned back into the pillows.

He glanced at the phone. Then away. The silence around him grew thick with expectation. Outside, snow tapped softly at the window. A tapping sound came from the phone.

Paul sat up straighter when the three little dots appeared. The dots blinked. Disappeared. Then blinked again. Then her message came through.

Birdy:

This is inappropriate. We shouldn’t be talking.

A grin lit Paul's face. He had her. He typed back before the moment could cool.

Paul:

We’re not talking. We’re texting. Completely different ethical territory.

Three dots again. They bounced once. Then her message lit the screen, black letters on a white background.

Birdy:

We’re on opposite sides of a case.

Paul let out a quiet laugh, his breath fogging the screen. But it didn't obscure her message because she had typed that to him, and she would type more. Because he'd hooked her.

Paul:

You’re the one who brought up the case. I was talking about The Justice Paradox. But nice pivot. Very attorney of you.

He stared at the screen, heart ticking faster than he’d like to admit. There was a soft heat blooming in his chest. This was an echo of that night on the chat line. That strange, rare click of finding someone who made his thoughts sharper and his pulse louder.

The dots danced. Paul leaned in, cradling the phone in his palm.

Birdy:

The book is brilliant. You’re wrong about chapter twelve. That monologue isn’t a cop-out. It’s a thesis. The author deliberately subverts the hero’s arc. It’s not about winning. It’s about surviving the truth.

He bit the inside of his cheek. There she was. She wasn't only hooked; she was letting herself be reeled in.

He could agree with her statement. He should agree. But this wasn't about right or wrong. It was about getting closer to her.

Paul:

Or it’s lazy narrative closure dressed in emotional shorthand. The entire second act builds toward a legal showdown and we get a speech about feelings?

He hit send. And waited. Another pause. Then?—

Birdy:

You clearly missed the point. The legal showdown was internal. The rest was noise.

Paul:

I don’t know... sounds like someone’s letting their love for courtroom drama blind them to a soft ending.

Birdy:

Says the man who thinks stoicism is a character trait.

He laughed out loud, the sound surprising in the stillness. This—this was what he’d missed. Not just the banter — the feeling. That tangle of intelligence and wit and tension that made the hours slip by unnoticed.

He hadn’t felt this giddy in a long time. Not since the chat that started it all. And somewhere between the phone's blinking dots and his blinking eyes, he realized he didn’t want this conversation to end. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.

Birdy:

I have to go. It's family dinner at Chow Town.

Paul:

I've heard of that restaurant. Any good?

Birdy:

Best Asian fusion in the state.

Paul:

Maybe you'll take me sometime.

Three dots. Nothing.

Paul:

I am new in town. Still trying to get my lay of the land.

Three dots. Nothing. And then.

Birdy:

Good night Mr. Winters.

Paul:

Sweet dreams, Ms. Chou.

Three dots.

Nothing.

And still nothing when he checked the phone again in the morning. Paul wanted to press his luck. He wanted to text her good morning. But he figured he'd be seeing her soon.

Later that morning, when he returned to the coffee shop, he saw another person he was hoping to run into.

The bell above the café door gave a cheerful jingle as Paul stepped inside. He stomped his boots by the welcome mat. It was early—still that gray-blue kind of morning where the sky hadn’t decided if it wanted to brighten up or stay sullen all day. Paul had been up since dawn, restless.

He stepped up to the counter, rubbing his hands together while the barista poured a black, strong, no frills coffee—and that’s when he saw him.

The kid.

Hunched over at a corner table, hoodie up, stirring something that looked too fancy to be his. The cup was untouched. His foot bounced under the table. Paul’s instincts kicked in like muscle memory. He took his coffee and walked over.

“Mind if I sit?”

The kid didn’t look up. Just shrugged. Paul slid into the seat across from him. They sat in silence for a moment, just the hiss of the milk steamer behind them.

“I’m not here to get you in trouble,” Paul said finally. “I’m here to give you a chance.”

The kid’s eyes flicked up. He was young. Too young to carry this much weight on his shoulders.

“You don’t have to say anything. Just come with me. See the baby. That’s it. No paperwork. No pressure.”

Something cracked—barely—in the boy’s expression. A flicker of something between guilt and longing.

Paul stood slowly. “I’ll wait outside.”

He didn’t wait long.

They drove to the mayor’s house in silence, snow crunching underfoot, the world muffled and pale. At some point, the kid gave him his name but nothing else.

They pulled up to the mayor's house and got out.

Paul knocked on the door while the kid made slow work of the steps.

It wasn't Bunny that opened the door, nor the mayor.

The child's mother was the one who pulled the door open, the baby cradled lovingly in her arms. The smile on her face lit up her features, highlighting a tear at the corner of her eyelids.

All that happiness dried up the moment she glanced behind Paul.

“Zeke?”

She took one look at the boy, then the baby—and something in her posture curled inward. Like she was bracing for a hit.