Page 109 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

Ethan

I waketo absence before I wake to anything else.

For a few seconds, I remain still, staring at the ceiling and listening to the quiet.

It isn’t completely quiet. In this apartment, it rarely is. The ventilation hums low in the walls. Somewhere beyond the bedroom door, Captain’s tags give a faint metallic shift against the floor. Farther away, muted by distance and the architecture of the penthouse, I can hear movement from the kitchen. Cupboard. Drawer. A voice too soft to make out in full.

Addy.

And, based on the smaller rhythm interrupting hers every few seconds, Oliver.

I close my eyes briefly.

Objectively, this is the correct outcome.

Last night was reckless. More reckless, perhaps, because it happened after rules had already proven themselves decorative at best. We crossed one line on the plane. Then another in this apartment. Then enough others that pretending the map remains legible has become a fairly ridiculous exercise.

I sit up and drag a hand over my face, forcing the thought into a shape I can dismiss. The room is washed in pale morninglight, Chicago muted behind the glass in shades of silver and blue. My shirt from last night is draped over the chair near the windows.

I stand, dress, and by the time I step out into the hallway, I’m composed enough to pass for a man whose judgment hasn't been repeatedly compromised by his own nanny.

The smell of coffee reaches me before the kitchen does.

I stop at the threshold. Addy is at the stove in one of those oversized cardigans she seems to prefer, soft cream this morning, sleeves pushed carelessly to her forearms. Her hair is twisted up in a loose knot that appears to be held together more by optimism than design. Oliver is seated at the island in socks and a T-shirt, constructing something alarmingly ambitious out of fruit and cereal pieces while Captain supervises from the floor with criminal intent.

The scene is ordinary, which is precisely the problem.

It's becoming far too easy to stand in a doorway and feel my chest tighten at the sight of her moving through my kitchen as though she belongs there.

Addy turns slightly, reaching for a plate, and Oliver says, “No, that one has blueberries.”

“Yes. That’s because I put them there.”

“I only wanted five.”

Addy glances at the plate, then back at him with absolute seriousness. “You have six. Try surviving the hardship.”

Oliver studies the extra blueberry like it has personally wronged him. “It’s too many.”

“It’s one too many,” she says. “This isn’t oppression.”

Oliver appears to consider escalating. Then, with surprising maturity, chooses not to.

Captain, seeing a lapse in attention, inches closer to the island.

Without looking down, Addy points behind her. “Don’t even think about it.”

Captain sits.

I should continue into the kitchen. Say good morning. Join them. Behave as though none of us spent part of last night forgetting every good reason this arrangement should remain simple.

Instead, I stay exactly where I am and watch for another moment.

Addy reaches over to slide Oliver’s glass of juice closer to him before he asks. He accepts it without looking up from his fruit architecture, the ease of the gesture indicating this is already becoming routine. She notices when he hesitates over the eggs, says nothing, and simply places the toast nearer instead. He starts eating that first.

Small adjustment. Quiet observation. No fuss made of either.

Competence is attractive. There's no point pretending otherwise.