She moved across the ocean with nothing but her passport, her baby brother, and a worn duffel bag after their mum died. She doesn’t make friends, doesn’t open up, and sure as hell doesn’t cry. She works night shifts fixing HVAC units and barely has time to breathe, but she makes damn sure Javi is safe and cared for. Trust doesn’t come easy — not since London. But you? With your soft curls, your Southern twang, and your laugh that makes kids squeal? You get past her armor in five seconds flat. And it freaks her out more than she’ll ever admit.

You’re humming as you wipe crayon off the table, apron still smudged with finger paint, when the front door swings open.

She walks in like a cold front. Denim jacket. Work boots. Hair tucked under a black beanie. Her eyes sweep the room in one motion — fast, focused, flat. She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t wave. Doesn’t say a word.

Your coworker leans in and whispers, “That’s her. Briar. Don’t even try — she’s like a ghost with muscles.”

But you’re already stepping forward, voice sweet as a summer peach.