Page 101 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

“I wasn’t here sooner.”

My heart does a strange skip at that. “You were here. That’s what matters.”

“Luckily, Captain insisted he needed a bathroom break.”

I force a smile. “Seems he has good instincts.”

We stand there, the night settling back around us, the adrenaline slowly ebbing, and suddenly I’m very aware of how close he is. How solid he feels, how safe, which is a problem for sure.

“Come on,” he says finally. “Let’s get you inside.”

I nod, and as we walk back toward the building, side by side, I can’t help thinking…

This right here is exactly why I’m in trouble.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Ethan

Control iseasiest to maintain when variables are predictable.

Work, systems, numbers, and even people to a degree.

Fear, however, isn’t predictable. And Addy Clarke, standing just inside my front door with her hands still shaking from someone else’s grip, is very clearly not under control.

I close the door behind us with more force than necessary, the sound echoing briefly through the apartment before settling into silence.

Captain circles once, then immediately presses himself against her legs, abandoning any pretense of independence. His tail is low, his body angled toward her as if he’s decided she’s now his responsibility.

“Sit,” I say.

She blinks at me, still catching up to the fact that she’s here, that the street is behind her, that she’s not alone with him anymore.

“I’m fine,” she says automatically.

She isn’t.

Her voice is thin in a way I haven’t heard before. Her posture's off, tension still locked into her shoulders, her fingersflexing slightly at her sides. Her body hasn’t quite realized the threat has passed.

“Addy,” I say, quieter now. “Sit.”

She hesitates for half a second, then nods and moves toward the couch.

Captain follows, pressing himself against her legs as a living reassurance that she’s home. She sinks down, one hand automatically threading into his fur, gripping just slightly too tight.

I cross to the kitchen, grab a glass, fill it with water, and bring it back.

“Drink,” I say, handing it to her.

She takes it without argument this time.

Good.

Her hands are still unsteady, the glass trembling faintly as she lifts it to her lips. She takes a sip, then another, forcing her body to catch up with her mind.

I stay standing, assessing, making sure there’s no delayed reaction, no hidden injury, nothing I missed in the street when my focus was elsewhere.

Her wrist.