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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

P aul sat stiffly in a metal-framed chair beside Birdy. Her hands rested on the table, fingers laced tightly like they were the only thing keeping her from unraveling.

He wanted to reach out. To comfort her. To connect to her. To unlace those fingers one by one and slide his own between them. To give her something steady to hold on to that wasn’t rage or control or the pressure of being the one everyone else leaned on.

But he didn’t move. Because he’d broken something. Again.

He shouldn't have brought Zeke to the house. Not on a hunch. He should have vetted the young man first.

Across from them, his supervisor—Marla Jensen, straight-backed and razor-voiced—was tapping her pen against a file folder with the kind of rhythm that made his pulse climb.

“As it stands, Zeke’s mother has filed for emergency custody.

She has legal resources. Money. Connections.

And Beverly…” Marla looked at the file like it might somehow soften.

“Beverly’s underage. She’s couch-surfing.

No guardianship, no consistent schooling, no viable plan.

The court will see her as unstable. The baby will be placed in a temporary foster home by the end of the week.

Possibly with Zeke’s family, depending on the judge. ”

Paul’s throat burned. It was all falling apart. He’d promised Beverly safety. He’d looked her in the eye and told her she was protected. And now it was going to end in a courtroom where people like Zeke’s mother always came out ahead.

“There has to be another option,” Birdy said, pulling a notepad from her bag. “A motion for temporary guardianship? I can file it today. Or what if we requested an emergency hearing based on the signs of emotional abuse? There’s precedent?—”

She was in motion now. Her fingers no longer clenched together. They moved through the air, sharp and fluid, like she was flipping through legal codes in her head or rifling through a deck of cards.

Paul sat back, watching her work. She was back in a tailored business suit. Her hair was once more in that tight, no-nonsense bun. As he watched her, the sting of failure slowly dissolved into something else.

This was the woman he’d written to in the dark, anonymous hours of a snowstorm. This was the woman he debated over text messages. This was the fire. And the grace. And the clarity. And he was falling again.

Hard.

“What if,” Birdy said slowly, tapping the notepad, “it was Beverly that went into guardianship? Voluntarily. That would protect her from being declared unfit. It keeps her close to the baby, too.”

Marla’s eyebrows lifted. “With who? Her mother is in and out of recovery. We can’t find her father. She’s been alone for months.”

“The mayor and Bunny?” Birdy offered. “They’d take her in. You’ve seen how they are with the baby?—”

Marla shook her head. “They’re not married. And with the election coming up, anything that looks even slightly unofficial would likely dampen his chances. We can't ask that of Mayor Carter.”

Silence settled over the room like dust. Birdy exhaled and slumped back in her chair, finally still. Paul stared at the scratched surface of the table. A small chip in the laminate caught the light. He tapped it once. He wasn’t really seeing it, though.

His mind kept drifting—to the mayor and Bunny.

To the way the man said ‘fiancée’ like it was a title he’d earned.

To Fish and his wife Jules, whose quiet affection filled every corner of whatever room they were in.

To Jed, who grumbled and cursed and made it sound like a hardship to be married to Jami Chou—but whose eyes said something else entirely whenever she came into a room.

All of them were married—or nearly.

All of them got to wake up every morning beside a Chou woman.

And Paul… he’d gotten a three-line text from Birdy Chou that morning. All business. Terse. Professional.

It wasn’t cold, exactly. But it wasn’t warm either. Not like their banter from the night before. Not like that easy, teasing rhythm they’d slipped into like an old dance. No jokes. No jabs. No sparks. Just facts.

Birdy:

Custody hearing is scheduled for 2 p.m. I’ll meet you there.

He read it three times, anyway. If they were married, they wouldn’t need chat features. Wouldn’t need email chains and court calendars and office drop-ins.

He could just… talk to her. In real time. Over breakfast. In the car. Late at night, when she was pacing the kitchen in her robe, rambling about legal strategies and case law while he brewed her another cup of tea.

He could tell her she was brilliant when that crease of doubt appeared between her brow. He could kiss her when she got anxious. He could stay—not leave when things got hard, not shut down when she got sharp. He could be the one man who stood happily in the glow of the light that was her.

He could be hers.

That thought bloomed low and steady in Paul's chest. It didn’t feel impulsive. It felt true.

He looked up at Birdy. The slump was gone. Her back was once again straight as she scanned her notes. Her brow was furrowed, but not with worry. It was heavy with concentration. She was already thinking ten moves ahead.

And something clicked. Something that felt less like a strategy… and more like a vow.

“What if we were the guardians?”

Birdy lifted her head from the paperwork. She blinked up at him as though she'd forgotten he was sitting there. “What?”

“You and me,” Paul said, heart thudding. “What if we get married? What if we adopt Beverly and the baby? What if we give them a stable household, legal standing, community support? You have the legal knowledge. I have the case history and agency access. It would work.”

The room went completely still. Not the quiet of resolution, but the breath-held silence of a courtroom just after someone dropped a bombshell confession.

Marla blinked, her pen pausing mid-scribble. Her mouth opened, then closed. The legal pad in her lap slid a fraction before she caught it. “I’m sorry,” she said carefully. “Did you just… propose marriage?”

Birdy turned her head toward him slowly, like it took effort to swivel her disbelief in his direction. Her dark eyes locked with his. Yes, her expression said. He had lost his mind.

Paul felt clear. Clearer than he had in weeks. Maybe ever.