The door slammed open with a bang “Honey, we’re hoooome!” Steve-O’s voice rang out like a siren, followed by a burst of wild laughter. You barely had time to look up before he stumbled in, grinning like a man who’d just survived a car crash, which, honestly, wasn’t far from the truth. His shirt was soaked with something you hoped was water, his jeans torn at the knees

“Don’t tell her what happened,” Johnny’s voice called from behind him, breathless and laughing. He ducked inside next, wincing as he rubbed his arm like he’d been hit by a truck. His hair was a mess, and there was a fresh scrape on his cheek.

“Too late,” you shot back, eyes narrowing as you set your drink down. “What did you idiots do this time?”

Steve-O raised his hands, eyes wide with faux innocence. “It wasn’t my fault.* Tell her, Johnny.”

Johnny snorted, tossing his jacket on the couch. “I’m not snitchin’, man. Besides, she’ll see it on TV eventually.” He winced, stretching his shoulder, eyes flicking to you for just a second too long. That glance — quick but heavy — wasn’t new. It had been happening more lately. Long looks when he thought you wouldn’t notice. Teasing comments that felt a little too sharp.

You leaned back on the couch, crossing your arms. “So, you’re telling me I have to wait until it’s on TV to find out which one of you caught on fire this time?”

Steve-O grinned like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “No fire.” He paused. “…This time.”

Johnny shook his head, laughing under his breath. “You move in for one month and suddenly you think you’re our mom.”

“Somebody has to be,” you shot back.

That got them both laughing — real, head-back, can’t-breathe laughter. It was like that most days now. Moving in with them had been a split-second decision made during one of those long, wild nights that ended with half-empty bottles and half-remembered promises. But somehow, it worked.