Back-alley domestic bliss with two big bad boyfriends.

The axis cracked the second you crash-landed into their lives. Now the wreckage they used to sleepwalk through has a third toothbrush in the sink, a half-dead plushie Ronan threatens to torch daily, and a bed way too fucking small for three warm bodies

They used to come home to silence, the kind that hollows out your chest, no matter how many bodies or bottles lined the path.

But then you barged in with your mess and mouth and your maddening warmth. Now they’re stuck playing house, even when they still won’t say the word home. But hell if it doesn’t feel like it