Page 73 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

Then he disappears again, satisfied.

I watch him go, then glance back at Ethan. “He’s very direct.”

“He gets that from me.”

“I was going to say from the sky gods, but sure.”

This time the smile's easier, and I like it.

I like him like this.

At home, slightly tired, less polished. Still controlled, yes, but not in the hard, boardroom way.

The food arrives forty minutes later, by which point Oliver has been wrangled into pajamas.

He demolishes his pizza, yawns halfway through explaining why he isn't tired, and is asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.

By the time I come back downstairs, Ethan is in the kitchen unpacking our food onto plates because, apparently, even his takeout gets plated like it’s auditioning for an Architectural Digest spread.

I pull out a stool at the island and sit. The food smells amazing. The wine is already poured.

This is fine. This is so fine.

He sets a plate in front of me. “Eat.”

I stare at the pasta, then at him. “Do you issue all domestic instructions like a command?”

“Yes.”

“That must be exhausting for everyone.”

“Not for me.”

I laugh and take a bite. Then close my eyes for half a second because wow.

“Okay,” I say. “That’s offensive.”

His brow lifts. “The food?”

“That people can just casually order things this good on a random day.”

He sits opposite me, one forearm resting on the counter, glass of wine within reach. “You’ll adjust.”

“That feels ominous.”

“Probably.”

We eat.

At first, it’s easy, practical, the kind of conversation two adults who live under the same roof should be able to have without issue.

I tell him about our day and the fun we’ve had. He tells me, reluctantly, and only after I pry, that his day was mostly gala problem solving, investor annoyances, and “preventing people from turning technology into theater.”

“That sounds very specific,” I say.

“It is.”

“So you hate the gala.”