Page 143 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

“Is this… a fire hazard,” Addy says, “or should I be impressed?”

I don’t look up immediately. “That depends on your standards.”

“Low,” she says promptly. “Very low. I’ve seen what you consider woodworking.”

“That was an experimental phase.”

“That was a cry for help.”

I allow myself a brief exhale that might qualify as amusement and turn toward her.

She’s leaning lightly against the edge of the island, hair pulled back loosely, a few strands already escaping. Comfortable. Off duty, in the way she becomes when she’s no longer moving through the house with the quiet awareness of Oliver’s schedule guiding her.

There's something about that shift I’ve started to notice that I should probably ignore. It doesn’t help that the memory of the dressing room hasn't left me since.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” I say.

“I'm resting,” she replies. “What are you making?”

“Dinner.”

She narrows her eyes slightly. “That’s vague.”

“You’ll see.”

She studies me, then pushes off the counter and steps closer, just enough to look into the pan. “Okay, I’ll admit, that looks… not terrible.”

“Sit,” I say, gesturing toward the dining table.

She does, surprisingly, without argument. “Are you always this bossy in your own kitchen?”

“Yes.”

“That tracks.”

I carry both plates over and set one in front of her before taking the chair opposite.

She looks at the plate, then at me. “This looks suspiciously like you know what you’re doing.”

“I followed instructions.”

“Ah,” she says. “So we credit someone else.”

“Always.”

She takes a bite.

Pauses.

Then looks up at me with a look approaching genuine surprise. “Okay. That’s actually good.”

“I’m aware.”

“You don’t even pretend to be humble.”

“It would be a lie.”

She laughs softly, shaking her head, and the sound settles into the space between us in a way that feels easy.