Page 115 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

Jeffrey glances at me. “You know half the communications team is going to cry.”

“They can do it in a separate branch.”

That gets an actual laugh, brief and badly needed.

The meeting breaks into motion. Engineers move. Sara sends three messages at once. Jeffrey starts outlining support assignments on the side screen. Within minutes, the atmosphere has shifted from alarm to execution.

This is the part I understand.

A problem with a shape, a system behaving badly, a room full of intelligent people waiting for someone to see the actual failure instead of the easiest explanation.

I remain at the screen while the revised architecture populates.

One of the engineers looks over. “How did you spot that so quickly?”

“Because if a machine starts lying, the first place to look is wherever someone recently tried to make it look better.”

He blinks once, then nods as though filing the sentence somewhere useful.

By noon, the isolated test build is stable. By one, the false positive stack is gone. By two, we’ve identified three adjacent vulnerabilities that would have become problems later if today hadn’t forced the audit now. By three, Sara has a revised galaprep schedule that absorbs the delay without compromising the live demo, and Jeffrey has somehow acquired lunch for everyone without making a speech about morale, which suggests genuine maturity or temporary possession.

I’m standing in my office reviewing the updated branch notes when he appears in the doorway with fresh coffee.

“You look pleased,” he says.

“I’m not.”

“Liar.”

I take the coffee. “The problem was avoidable.”

“Yes. But now it’s fixed, the system is cleaner, and three people learned not to turn engineering into decorative nonsense.”

I glance at him. “That sounds like my line.”

“I spend a lot of time with you. Some damage was inevitable.”

He leans against the doorframe. “Rough morning otherwise?”

I know what he’s actually asking. Or rather, I know what he suspects enough to ask badly. My expression must shift by a fraction because his mouth tilts.

“Ah,” he says. “So yes.”

I set the coffee down. “If you’re about to become intrusive, leave.”

He ignores that. “How’s the domestic experiment?”

“That isn't what this is.”

“Of course. Very corporate. Entirely sterile. No feelings in the penthouse whatsoever.”

I give him a look flat enough to qualify as a warning. He lifts both hands. “Fine. Message received.”

Then, because Jeffrey has always possessed exactly enough self-preservation to survive but not enough to behave, he adds, “You do seem less homicidal than usual, though. Maybe the house is good for you.”

I consider several responses and choose the one least likely to extend the conversation. “Get out.”

He grins and leaves.