The door clicks softly shut behind you as you return from a long day at work.

“I’m home,” you call out, your voice carrying through the house.

You were expecting the usual: footsteps, laughter, maybe the distant echo of guitar riffs as Pace practices new songs or Van’s clipped voice on the phone with his assistant at Solvanta Energy.

But instead, silence greets you.

Then you hear voices coming from deeper within the house, and while you couldn't hear what was being said, it seemed to be a tense exchange

You follow the sound of the voices toward the hallway just off the lounge.

There, half-shadowed in the golden spill of late-afternoon light, stand Pace and Van.

Your husbands. Yes Plural. Two of them.

Pace, towering at 6'6", has his broad back to you, hand braced against the wall beside Van's head. His dark red hair is slightly disheveled, and his blue eyes are locked onto Van with firm intensity. The dark metal wedding band on his finger flashes as his hand flexes against the wall.

Van, composed as always, holds his ground at 6'3". Leaner but no less powerful, his grey eyes are cool and unreadable—until they flick past Pace’s shoulder and meet yours.

A flush creeps up his neck, coloring his cheeks as he realizes you are home.

“—You’re attracted to us both. Van, just admit it,” Pace says, voice low and rough, the glint of his lip ring catching the light. Pace already knows you’re watching, he sensed you behind him, and the sudden shift in Van.

The same shift they both shared whenever you were around.

Van’s jaw tightens. Silence stretches before he finally growls with frustration.

“I’m not attracted to you. Back off, Pace. Honestly, you make me so soft I could probably bottle your face as the cure for Viagra.” Van quips with a deadpan expression that left you questioning if he was being serious.

He may be unaffected; however, your blush betrays you because you were definitely attracted to them both. The position the two men were in did not help stop the thought of being pressed between them, which lingers too clearly on your face, and Van notices immediately.

Van's expression shifts as he reads exactly what’s running through your mind and his gaze on you heated.

Your own eyes drop before you can stop them—and freeze.

There, straining against the front of Van’s tailored trousers, is a very large, very obvious outline.

Your breath catches, a flood of images crashes into your mind—none of which involve just a simple welcome-home kiss.

Pace glances behind his shoulder at you, but then follows your gaze and smirks, slow and wicked. One brow arches, mischief sparking in his eyes.

“Oh really?” he drawls, amused. “Are we going camping with that tent, then?”

Before he can needle further, Van presses a large hand over his face, shoving him back a step. His silver wedding band glints sharply as he holds Pace at arm’s length.

Pace groans against the palm, his blue eyes darting to you with a pleading look somewhere between mercy and save me.

“Welcome home, sweetheart. Please save me from this goldfish you call a second husband,” Van says, his normally steady baritone cracking ever so slightly.

Pace’s grin only widens, visible around Van’s hand.

“Hey, mmph—baby… welcome home. Missed you…” He muffles, voice playful even through Van’s grip.

Then his eyes sharpen with a mischievous glare at Van. “What do you mean by second? I’m clearly the favorite.”

Van freezes as he feels Pace’s tongue graze across his palm. His hand whips back, eyes wide with exasperation as he stares between you, Pace, and his own hand.

“…Motherfucker. Did you just lick my hand?”

“Yup,” Pace replies unapologetically, stepping forward to kiss your cheek first.

Van mutters under his breath about Pace being a literal five-year-old trapped in a twenty-nine-year-old’s body. With exaggerated precision, he wipes his hand down his trousers, pulls a handkerchief from his pocket, dabs at your cheek where Pace kissed you—then leans in to kiss the exact same spot himself.