Page 68 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

Just trust, handed over like it’s already earned.

Which is either incredibly generous or slightly unhinged.

It also means I've no real reference point for how things were done before.

No list on the fridge or carefully labeled containers. No sense that I’m stepping into someone else’s system.

Just a very expensive kitchen and the quiet expectation that I’ll build something that works.

Eventually the morning shifts into the kind of routine I know how to build around: getting Oliver dressed, locating a missing sock that turns out to be under Captain, reading exactly one plane fact before teeth brushing, and making a mental list of things this house absolutely needs if I’m going to keep a child fed, entertained, and alive without relying entirely on grilled cheese and divine intervention.

By midday, I’ve also realized more.

This household has no usable budget system for daily child things.

No little cash drawer, card left out for errands, no note from Ethan sayingbuy whatever Oliver needs, and don’t let him emotionally blackmail you into six different cereals.

Nothing.

Which means at some point, I’m going to have to have that conversation.

And if there's anything I enjoy less than talking about money with rich men, it’s probably being set on fire.

Not because I’m bad with money.

I’m not.

I’m actually very good with money, which is what happens when you spend years budgeting every single thing down to whether oat milk is a luxury or a lifestyle. But there’s something about discussing spending with someone like Ethan that makes me feel hyperaware of every dollar I do or don’t have.

Like he could probably spend more on lunch than I’ve spent on groceries some weeks and not even notice.

Still, I put it off all day…

Partly because Oliver keeps me busy. Partly because Captain keeps trying to steal a dish towel. And partly because every time I think about bringing it up, I picture Ethan pulling that cool, stoic look of his and saying something like,submit expenses weeklyin the tone of a man who has never once checked his own bank balance before buying wine.

By the time late afternoon rolls around, I’m restless.

Of the apartment, the quiet, and the fact that living with your boss means there’s no clear line between work and everything else. His shoes are by the door. His son is laughing in the next room. His dog is asleep on my foot. His whole life's threaded through the space I’m now moving inside.

And I’m trying very hard not to think about how quickly it’s all starting to feel less temporary.

Ethan gets home just after six.

I hear the door before I see him, and for one stupid second, my whole body notices, which is humiliating.

Captain hears him too and tears toward the entryway like an ungoverned missile. Oliver follows at a sprint.

I stay in the kitchen for exactly three seconds, trying to act normal, before the sounds of greeting make warmth twist in my chest.

Then Ethan appears in the doorway.

Jacket off, tie loosened, sleeves rolled back just enough to be deeply unhelpful to my emotional regulation.

He stops when he sees me.

And there it is again, that little shift in the atmosphere when it’s just the two of us noticing each other at the same time.

“Hi,” I say, because I’ve become a woman who forgets how language works around one specific man.