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CHAPTER SEVEN

T he air in the mayor’s office was stifling, thick with tension and far too much heat for a building that old on a day in this weather.

The radiator clanked in the corner like it was taking a step back from the heat being produced by the human bodies at odds.

Birdy stood in the center of it all, spine straight, jaw locked, eyes narrowed at the broad-shouldered man in the state-issued parka.

Paul Winters. Social worker. Self-appointed gatekeeper. And, apparently, licensed mansplainer.

He was calling her a bully? She was advocating. Protecting.

That baby had a name. And a mother. And rights. And he was acting like Birdy was the problem.

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides.

Her palms itched with the familiar heat of fury—the kind that started in her chest and spread down her arms whenever she whiffed the scent of injustice.

She ignored the stares from the staff outside the glass door, the warning tilt of Bunny’s head as Paul Winters kept going.

“You don’t intimidate me,” he said coldly. “You just make everything harder than it needs to be.”

And there it was. The knife in her gut. Birdy blinked once. Just once.

The heat dropped. A different kind of ache settled beneath her collarbone. Her ribs constricted. Not because he was wrong. But because he’d said exactly what so many others had only implied.

You’re too much. Too smart. Too strong. Too sharp-tongued and steel-backed. Too successful to be soft. Too loud to be loved.

She felt the eyes on her. Some sympathetic, some smug. Some already dialing this up for the next round of town gossip.

Bunny winced, just slightly. Her sister's reaction to this scene somehow made it worse. Or maybe it was the sight of Teddy Carter standing behind her, ready to be the support Bunny needed. Birdy knew her sister would come to her aid if she needed it. She didn't need it.

Birdy lifted her chin. This wasn’t about her. This was about her client. A frightened young girl with faded bruises on her wrists. Her head ducked. That jumpy flinch. The fact that she hadn’t named the father. Not out of shame—but fear.

So no. Birdy wasn’t going to let this puffed-up, emotionally restrained, law-by-the-letter social worker derail her. Not when she could smell the storm still clinging to her coat. Not when her voice was one of the few weapons she knew how to use to protect the defenseless.

She stepped in closer, going toe to toe with this Mr. Winters.

“You file your motion, and I’ll file mine.

Let the court decide who's protecting this child and who's just pretending to. But make no mistake, Mr. Winters—my client may not have walked into this system the right way, but she’s here now. And I won’t let her be silenced just because she didn’t ask permission. ”

Mr. Winter's jaw worked, like he was chewing on what to say next. Then he said it. “The strong don’t show up to be heroes. They show up because someone has to.”

Her breath caught. Everything in her body stilled. The noise of the hallway fell away. The thudding pulse in her ears quieted.

That line. She knew that line. The words curled like smoke through her memory, warm and familiar and painfully unexpected.

He had said that. Chat guy. The agent from the business office. The one who made her laugh. The one who made her feel seen.

She stared at Paul Winters. Really looked—past the glare and the square jaw and the tightly wound disapproval. Past the frown. Could it be...?

“Chat agent?”

“What?” Paul looked shocked. Then rattled. He stepped back.

There was something there. In his eyes. A flicker. Recognition.

“It’s you,” she said, a little stronger now. “Isn’t it?”

He didn't say something stupid like ‘Who?’ He stepped back but not in denial. Not yet.

She saw it. The dawning realization. The puzzle pieces sliding into place. He looked at her like she was a memory coming into focus. His mouth opened, then closed again.

For the first time in her life, Birdy kept quiet. She wanted his words. While she waited for them, she took him in anew.

His dark hair was a little tousled, like he’d run a frustrated hand through it more than once today.

His jaw was strong, shadowed with the kind of scruff that should’ve looked unkempt but somehow made him maddeningly handsome.

His shoulders were broad, the kind that filled out a button-down in a way that made a woman forget her entire vocabulary.

There were faint lines at the corners of his mouth.

Crinkles etched there not from scowling but from smiling. A lot.

He was frowning now. At her. But those lines told the truth. He was the kind of man who laughed often. Who smiled easily. He hadn’t smiled at her once since he’d walked into this office.

But he had smiled at her in the chat. She was sure of it.

And just like that—Birdy let herself hope.

Maybe… maybe she wasn’t the last lonely Chou. Maybe she wasn’t too much, too sharp, too strong. Maybe she was just enough—for someone. For him.

She could see it in the softness that flashed across his face, just for a moment. Like he remembered her laugh even though they hadn't spoken face to face. Like he remembered the feeling of that night, that chat. She watched his eyes shift. Not cold now, but curious. Warm.

And then, like a light switch flipped—Gone.

Paul shook his head slowly, retreating back into the lines he’d drawn in the sand. “No,” he said. “No. You can’t be her.”

Birdy's stomach dropped. The words hit like an open palm to the chest. He looked away, then back again. There was nothing gentle in his gaze now. Just walls.

“Even if you are, it doesn't matter. I could never…”

He let the sentence trail off. Birdy didn't need to hear him finish it. She knew where it would've gone.

She felt the room tilt. Not literally. The balance shifted like she was on a Tilt-a-Whirl or on a not-quite-frozen lake when the ground underneath turns out to be thinner than you thought. A fragile shell over a deeper hurt.

Outside the mayor’s office, someone sucked in a breath. The crowd, pretending to work, had caught every word. Bunny took a step forward, but at a glance from her sister, she halted.

Birdy didn’t move. She couldn’t. Everything inside her wanted to vanish. To crumple. But she didn’t get that luxury.

Instead, she straightened her shoulders. Pulled her armor back on and prepared to fire. If he couldn’t handle her—all of her—then she wasn’t going to dim herself to be more palatable.

“This is about a young mother trying to get her child back. And I won’t let you use your personal bias to keep them apart.”

Paul gave her a look—one she’d seen before. From dates. From men who liked her until they thought she made them feel small. It was a look that said dim down or get out.

Birdy was done dimming. “I’ll file everything I can. I’ll bury you in motions if I have to.”

He sighed. The sigh was a confirmation, like she'd done exactly what he'd expected of someone like her.

“Do your worst,” he said, walking toward the door. “But I’m not handing that baby over until I know she’s going somewhere safe.”

Then he was gone. Just like that. No warmth. No apology. No second look.

Birdy stood there, chest burning but her face cool and unreadable. She wouldn’t cry. Not here. Not ever again over a man who couldn’t see her shine without squinting.