Page 162 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

“We’re right,” Oliver says sleepily.

“Sure, buddy.”

Oliver smiles smugly like he’s won.

When we finally step out of his room, closing the door softly behind us, the apartment settles into that evening quiet again.

Ethan exhales once. “We have approximately fifteen minutes.”

“Before your mysterious friend arrives.”

“Yes.”

I cross my arms. “So? What should I expect?”

“A conversation.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“He’s… unpredictable,” Ethan says finally. “Intelligent. Occasionally irritating.”

“Wow,” I deadpan. “Sounds familiar.”

His gaze sharpens slightly. “Careful.”

I grin. “You walked into that.” I clear my throat. “Right. Okay. Dinner. Normal. Social. I can do that.”

“You can,” he says.

The confidence in his voice should be reassuring.

It isn’t.

It feels like pressure, expectation, like I’ve just stepped into a world I don’t fully understand, and I’m about to be evaluated without knowing the criteria.

I shake it off. I’ve handled worse. Much worse.

The doorbell cuts through the moment, right on time.

Ethan moves before I do, crossing the room with that same controlled ease, like everything in his life operates on a schedule he doesn’t need to check.

I hover near the dining area, suddenly very aware of my hands, my posture, my entire existence.

This is fine. This is normal. This is…

The door opens.

I hear Ethan. “Bee, Celeste, good to see you.”

The footsteps come toward me as I smooth down my dress, trying my damndest to catch my breath.

And I turn.

The world stops.

Because standing in Ethan’s living room, like some kind of twisted cosmic joke, is Bryce.

Bryce Biggs.