Page 144 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

We eat.

For a while, the conversation stays in safe territory. Oliver. The day. Captain’s continued commitment to causing drama. The minor adjustments she’s made to the house that I’ve noticed but not commented on.

“You reorganized the pantry,” I say.

She glances up. “You noticed?”

“Yes.”

“It was a disaster.”

“It was functional.”

She gives me a look. “Now it’s functional.”

I consider that for a moment before nodding. “It’s more efficient.”

She smiles, satisfied.

I take a sip of wine, watching her over the rim of the glass.

She’s more relaxed tonight, less guarded. Still quick, still sharp, but not braced in the same way she has been since she arrived. The edges of her humor soften between sentences. The pauses last a fraction longer.

It changes the dynamic.

It makes it easier to forget certain constraints, which is precisely why I shouldn’t.

“You’ve adjusted quickly.”

“To the job?”

“To the house.”

She shrugs. “It’s not that different from what I’ve done before. Just bigger. And with more glass.”

“And fewer instructions.”

“I noticed.” She studies me for a moment. “You don't tell me what to do.”

“I don't interfere unless necessary.”

“That takes trust.”

“It does.”

“Why?”

“Because you've given me no reason not to.”

She smiles faintly. “That's a very Ethan Strong answer.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Safe,” she says with a smile. “And careful.”

I don’t return the smile because I’m aware of where this conversation is moving, and I haven’t decided whether to let it.

She watches me for a moment.