Page 65 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

I don’t ask why that last part's relevant because I suspect the answer will be exhausting.

Instead, I say, “Oliver was comfortable?”

“Yes.” She softens a little at that. “Very. He likes routines, but he also likes knowing what comes next when the routine changes. Once I explained where we were going and why, he was good.”

Many people miss that distinction with him. They assume calm means passivity, when in fact it usually means he’s processing more than they expect.

I nod once. “Good.”

She sets the glass down. “Then we came back, did a little decompression time, and I made him something simple later because apparently grilled cheese is not, in fact, a complete dinner in this household.”

Captain appears beside her as if summoned by disagreement. She absently scratches behind his ears without breaking eye contact with me.

Dangerous.

I ignore the thought and say, “What’s the notebook?”

She glances down at the book in her hand. “Oh. Just notes.”

“On?”

“Your son. The dog. The kitchen. The fact that your pantry appears to have been stocked by someone who fears fun.”

I look at the notebook. “You’re making household notes on your first day.”

“Yes.” She pauses. “Is that weird?”

“No.”

It isn’t.

If anything, it’s exactly the sort of beyond-the-minimum instinct I’ve spent years trying and failing to hire consistently.

I look at her more directly. “Most people wouldn’t.”

She shrugs a little, suddenly less certain of the ground under the conversation. “Most people probably also wouldn’t have taken him out on day one.”

“No.”

“But he needed actual food.”

“Yes.”

The city beyond the windows is dark now, the skyline lit in fragments. Reflections gather on the glass, turning the apartment inward. The light above the island catches in her hair differently at night, warmer than it does in daylight. Her cardigan has slipped slightly off one shoulder, and I hate that I notice that before the notebook in her hand or the fact that Captain has now fully stationed himself against her leg.

I look away first.

“You did well today,” I say.

“Oh,” she says. Then, quieter, “Thanks.”

“It matters,” I add, because for some reason, leaving it there feels insufficient. “Oliver doesn’t settle easily with new people.”

“I know.”

“You handled it properly.”

She looks down, then back up. “He makes it easy too.”