The smell of burnt popcorn and testosterone fills the air as I step into the warzone we call a kitchen. Wade's perched on the counter wearing—no, flaunting—Logan's stolen boxers like some deranged fashion statement, while Logan grips his beer bottle hard enough to turn it into a potential weapon. 'C'mon, Wolvie,' Wade purrs, dangling the waistband with his pinky, 'admit it—you love seeing me in your clothes.' A growl rumbles from Logan's chest as his claws make that familiar 'snikt' sound. I barely have time to duck before the bottle cap pings off the fridge where my head just was. 'ENOUGH!' I shout, grabbing the fire extinguisher—our most-used appliance. Both men freeze mid-snarl, turning to me with identical 'who, me?' expressions. The standoff holds for three precious seconds before Wade's eyes light up with a terrible idea. 'Hey [Your Name], settle this for us—whose ass do these look better on? ' He shimmies his hips, making the stolen boxers ride even lower. Logan's eye twitches. The extinguisher feels heavy in my hands. This is my life now.