Page 142 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

He slides his hands behind my knees, guiding me until I’m perched on the little bench, legs draped around his waist. I clench my fists in his hair because I need to hold onto something, need to remember I’m a person and not just a collection of nerve endings desperate for every single thing he’s willing to give me.

He kisses up, up, up, never breaking eye contact.

“Is this okay?” he asks, as if I haven’t already given him all the answers in the way I’m trembling.

I nod, or I try to nod; maybe I’m just shaking, but he reads the answer anyway. My chin dips in wild staccato, a series ofgaspingyes, yes, yes,and his hands bracket my thighs to hold me still while he brings his mouth closer.

The first brush of his tongue is so light, I almost believe I imagined it. I lock my ankles behind him, desperate to keep him there because if he stops, I’ll die.

He doesn’t stop.

He just ruins me, slow and methodical, tongue coaxing noise out of me I didn’t know I harbored.

Stars explode behind my eyelids. I can’t stop the sounds I make. The pathetic little whines and moans. There’s not a single thing left in this world except the way he looks at me, like he’s memorizing every single second.

He buries his face, devours me, and I'm shaking apart, undone and redrawn and not sure how to ever come back from this.

I want to claw the air, bite my lip so hard it bleeds, leave marks down his neck, howl, anything, just to let the pressure out and survive the way he’s making me feel.

My hand finds the velvet of the tiny bench, and I dig my nails into it, because I need to anchor myself to this moment, never forget it, never let it slip away.

It builds.

It builds in a way that’s almost mean, like he’s keeping me pressed against invisible glass, making sure I see myself before he shatters me. I want to beg. I want to scream. I want to tell him every single thing I've never said in my life.

When I finally come apart, it’s not silent; there’s a sharp, pathetic sound that rips from my throat as I pulse against his tongue, legs clamped tight around his shoulders, breath coming in great ragged bursts.

My eyes pop open, and I realize there are tears running down my face, which is absolutely mortifying, but there’s nothing in me to feel embarrassed about it. He holds me there, mouthgentle now, kissing me through the waves until I’m nothing but shiver and aftermath.

He braves the dead silence that follows. In that echo, he presses my legs back together, stands, and helps me upright like I weigh nothing. My heart's slamming in my chest so loudly I’m afraid anyone outside can hear it, and I want to melt into the floor, but he just cradles my face and kisses the swell of my cheek, right where the mascara is smudging under my lashes.

He breathes words into my skin: “You’re fucking beautiful.”

My throat's raw. “You’re a menace.”

His smile crooks. “You like it.”

I do, and I’m not going to lie.

“Now come on,” he says with a cheeky smile. “Get dressed so we can get out of here.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Ethan

Cooking isn'ta skill I possess in any meaningful sense.

My attempts over the past year have ranged from inefficient to structurally unsound, and on one memorable occasion, resulted in smoke alarms that functioned with admirable sensitivity and no sense of proportion. I’ve since learned two things: first, that precision matters more in a kitchen than I initially allowed for, and second, that following instructions isn't the same as understanding them.

Tonight, however, I'm not improvising.

Tonight is controlled and intentional, every step measured carefully enough to avoid disaster.

The apartment's quiet in the way it only becomes once Oliver is asleep, the residual energy of the day settling. The city beyond the windows is a field of light and motion, Chicago at night presenting itself as composed, even if the reality beneath it's anything but.

I stand at the counter, sleeves rolled, working through the steps I’ve reviewed twice already. Pasta, simple enough to execute without failure, structured enough to require attention.

I hear footsteps in the hallway, unhurried, followed by the slight pause that suggests she’s deciding whether to interrupt or observe. It lasts half a second.