Page 80 of Filthy Rich Single Daddies

But old and fragile as she may look in here, Birdie is not one to be fooled.

She watches me, her sharp gaze scanning my face like she’s reading between the lines I haven’t spoken. She watches me with those sharp, knowing eyes, and I can feel her reading me like one of her beloved, dog-eared novels. She’s always been too good at that. At seeing the things I try to bury.

After a long moment, she tilts her head. “Something’s eating at you.”

I shake my head. “I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.” Her hand tightens around mine, frail but firm. “You’re wound up tighter than a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”

I huff a laugh, but it’s weak. “I just…it’s a lot. You selling the house, moving in next door, you being here…” I swallow past the lump forming in my throat. “Everything feels like it’s shifting all at once.”

Birdie hums like she expected that answer but isn’t satisfied with it. She waits, letting the silence stretch between us, giving me the space to fumble my way through my own thoughts.

And I almost leave it there. Almost let her believe it’s just the house, just the change, just the usual discomfort of life shifting under my feet. But then her fingers squeeze mine again, and something in me buckles.

“It’s Austin.” The words slip out before I can stop them.

Birdie lifts a brow. “Ah.”

That’s it. Justah. Like she already knew.

I fidget with the edge of the scratchy hospital blanket, avoiding her gaze.

"Sky?" she presses, and I know I won't escape this conversation without spilling something.

“And Theo,” I grumble. Then after a moment of silence where I can feel her stare digging into the marrow of my bones, I relent. “And Cohen.”

Birdie doesn’t speak right away. Instead, she watches me, her expression unreadable. Then she sighs, shaking her head. “Men are stupid.”

A surprised laugh bursts from my lips. “That’s your wisdom?”

“That’s my truth, dear. Talk to me," she urges gently.

My mouth opens and closes, hesitant. The dam inside me trembles, ready to break. I clamp my lips shut, shaking my head again.

Birdie doesn’t push right away. She just watches me, her thumb brushing over the back of my hand in slow, deliberate strokes. Then, after a long silence, she murmurs, “You know, I’ve seen you scared before.”

My chest tightens.

“But I don’t think I’ve ever seen youthisscared.”

I exhale sharply, my whole body going stiff.

She doesn’t let up. “So, what is it? What’s got you looking like you’re waiting to be left behind?”

And just like that, the dam breaks.

“It's just...everything feels like it's closing in on me," I start, the confession tasting bitter. "I went to my father's funeral. And it was like I was that teenager all over again, completely cut off from the family."

"That must've been tough," she murmurs, squeezing my hand.

"Without him, Birdie, I..." My throat tightens, choking the words. "I literally have no family left. I mean, I know I didn’t really have him to begin with, but it felt more—I don’t know, final?"

Birdie is quiet for a moment, then she tilts her head. "And what am I, then?"

I blink, caught off guard. "What?"

Her grip tightens just slightly. "If you have no family left, where does that leave me?"

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