The kind of smell that had officially soaked into the drywall at this point. You’re pretty sure nothing short of arson would ever get it out.

The yelling hit you next.

It wasn’t arguing yelling. It was the kind of unhinged, grown-man screaming that could only mean one of three things: someone was losing badly at a game, someone had broken something expensive, or they were collectively losing their minds over something completely stupid.

All three were equally likely.

You dropped your bag by the stairs, rounded the corner into the living room, and immediately stopped dead in your tracks.

They were playing Twister.

Twister.

At twenty-two years old.

The mat was spread out across the floor—half wrinkled, half peeling up at the corners like it had been violently yanked from a closet. Chase was bent in a position that looked medically dangerous, one hand on red and the other hovering somewhere near blue. Jake was literally draped over him, one leg twisted behind Chase’s back like some kind of human pretzel, his arm stretched across to reach a yellow circle his fingertips were failing to touch.

Mason had somehow ended up flat on his back, one foot in the air, his face bright red from exertion—or maybe from Tyler's elbow currently digging into his ribs.

Tyler himself was balanced on one knee and one hand, hovering over Mason like a predator about to strike, his blonde curls a mess, eyes focused and competitive.

And Hunter.

Hunter was on the outskirts, leaning against the armchair with an unbothered sort of amusement, clearly having noped out before it got physical. His arms were crossed, sweats sitting low on his hips, and there was a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips that he tried to hide when he noticed you standing there.

The chaos paused.

The pile collapsed.

They all looked at you now. Five pairs of eyes. Five different states of out-of-breath chaos.