Page 92 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

Captain immediately abandons his position on the rug to follow her, tail already in motion.

“Oh no, you don’t,” she tells him, crouching slightly to intercept. “You're not invited. This is a no dogs, no bedlam, no stealing strangers’ belongings kind of event.”

He sits, looks at her, and refuses to move.

I watch this play out before stepping in. “Captain.” He glances at me, then back at her, clearly weighing his options. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

He sighs, which is an impressive display of disappointment from a dog, and returns to the rug.

Addy laughs softly. “He has no respect for authority.”

“He has selective loyalty.”

“Same thing.”

She straightens, gives me one last look, and then opens the door. Cold air slips into the apartment as she steps out.

Then she’s gone.

And the space she leaves behind is immediately, noticeably different.

Oliver is still moving somewhere down the hall. Captain resettles with a low huff. The city hum continues beyond the glass.

But there’s an absence now.

One I shouldn't be aware of.

Oliver is asleep within twenty minutes.

That part's easier than it used to be, not because I’ve improved at it, but because he’s settling, becoming steadier again.

That’s her doing.

Another fact I'm not inclined to examine too closely.

I check on him once more before I leave the room, adjusting the blanket slightly, smoothing a hand over his hair.

He doesn’t wake.

Good.

The apartment is dim when I return to the main living space. The city fully dark now, reflections sharper against the glass.

I could stay here. Work through emails, review projections, and go over the demo architecture again.

Instead, I turn toward my home office. The door closes quietly behind me, and I cross to the built-in shelving along the far wall and pause.

I don’t move.

Then I reach for the lower cabinet and open it.

Inside, arranged with precision, is the part of my life that didn’t survive intact.

Flight logs, old system schematics, a model aircraft, slightly worn at the edges, the paint dulled where it’s been handled too often, photographs, and beneath them, a stack of folders I haven’t touched in months.

Megan’s handwriting is still on some of them.

That alone is enough to make most people close the cabinet again.