Page 10 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

I smile, lopsided, like it was turbulence that left me flushed and glowing.

CHAPTER TWO

Ethan

The apartment feels quieterthan usual when I step inside.

It isn’t silent, Oliver has never been capable of that, but there's a difference between sound and presence, and tonight feels contained. Ordered. As though the day has already begun settling itself before I've had the chance to catch up with it.

The door closes behind me with a muted click, sealing out the city, and for a brief moment, I remain where I am, allowing the stillness to register. It's a habit I've never quite broken. Taking stock before stepping fully back into whatever waits on the other side.

Then “Dad!”

The quiet disappears in an instant as Oliver reaches me at speed, colliding with the unshakable certainty that I’ll catch him, and I do, steadying him without effort as his arms wrap around me.

“You’re going to take me out one of these days,” I tell him, adjusting my stance.

“You’re too big,” he replies, entirely serious.

“Oh, I don’t know about that.”

He pulls back slightly, studying me with a level of focus that's, at times, disarming. It's a look I recognize. One I've seen before, directed at me across a cockpit, across a table, across years that feel both distant and immediate.

“You smell like planes.”

“I was on one.”

“Did you fly it?”

“Not today.”

He accepts that without question.

I set him down, brushing something from his sleeve without asking what it is. “Where’s Claire?”

“In the kitchen.”

I loosen my tie as I move through the apartment, rolling tension from my shoulders. The day has been predictable in the way most of them are. Decisions layered over problems that require immediate resolution, each one addressed in sequence until the noise becomes manageable again.

Claire looks up as I enter, offering a familiar smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You’re early.”

“I finished what required my attention,” I reply. “The aircraft’s been delivered. The return leg was ahead of schedule.”

She nods, but there’s a hesitation in her posture that doesn't belong to routine conversation. “I was hoping we could talk.”

I shift my weight slightly against the counter, giving her my full attention. “Go ahead.”

“It’s about the move,” she says, choosing her words carefully. “The timeline has changed.”

“When?”

“A week. Possibly less. My fiancé’s company moved everything forward.”

I absorb that without reaction, though the implications begin arranging themselves immediately. A week isn't unworkable, but it introduces variables I’d have preferred to avoid.

“I see.”

“I’m sorry,” she adds, more quickly now. “I wouldn’t leave like this if I had a choice.”