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It started with a dumb wish. Not even a real wish — more like an irritated thought muttered into a cup of late-night ramen while I stood barefoot in the kitchen, trying to ignore my roommate’s latest rant about being single.

Kyle had been in a mood all week. Something about all his friends being coupled up, his Grindr dates flaking, and how “love just isn’t built for guys like me.” And I, being the caring, patient friend that I am, had finally snapped with, “God, I hope you find someone already. Maybe then you’ll shut up for five minutes.”

Yeah. That’s what I said. And I meant it with all the sincerity of someone yelling at a toaster.

Apparently, that was enough.

I woke up the next morning to the sound of a deep laugh in the kitchen. Not Kyle’s — Jonah’s. My brother. My straight brother. Or so I thought.

I walked out, groggy, rubbing my eyes, and there they were. Kyle and Jonah. Shirtless. Cooking breakfast together. Jonah standing behind him, arms wrapped around Kyle’s thick middle, whispering something that made Kyle blush, and for some reason they were both barefoot and there were two coffee mugs with little cartoon bears on them on the counter.

I think I just blinked and walked back to my room.

Took me two whole weeks to realize this wasn’t a fling. They weren’t new. They’d been together for years. Years. I didn’t figure that out because anyone told me — oh no. It was little things. Their shared Spotify playlists labeled “Our Hikes <3.” The matching bear paw tattoos I spotted when they were horsing around in the living room. The blanket with their faces photoshopped onto two grinning cartoon lumberjacks that I found in the dryer.

The kicker? A Facebook post from four years ago that read: “Happy 1-year anniversary to the best damn man I’ve ever met. Here’s to many more, cub.” From Kyle. To Jonah. Liked by 176 people. Commented on by my mom with a heart emoji.

That was the moment I realized I was well and truly in a different reality.

And they are so in love. Loudly, shamelessly, constantly in love. It’s like living in a Hallmark movie directed by a bear bar owner. I’m not even sure they realize I’m in the room half the time. Or maybe they just don’t care.

I mean, look at them right now — no, really, look at them. They’re sprawled across our couch in the den, deep into one of their marathon make-out sessions. Kyle’s got his hand halfway under Jonah’s gut, and Jonah’s purring like some kind of fuzzy furnace. The TV’s on, but neither of them’s watching it. I am, though. Or trying to. Can’t exactly focus on Planet Earth with the grizzly bears mating next to me.

That’s my brother. That’s my roommate. I’m just the guy trapped between their chests, metaphorically speaking, screaming into a throw pillow.

They don’t just stop at cuddling on the couch, either. Oh no. They’re domestically obscene. I’ve walked in on bubble baths, shirtless apron cooking, a full-on bear massage chain on the back porch, and one time — one time — I came home to find them napping belly-to-belly on the living room rug with “Whale Sounds for Deep Lovers” playing on loop. There was incense. There were candles.

Every time I so much as sigh in their direction, they glance over like I’m the one being weird. Sorry, am I interrupting the pre-hibernation cuddle ritual? Should I come back in spring?

But here's the messed-up part: I can’t even leave. The rent’s too good. The house is big — three bedrooms, a finished basement, fenced yard, walking distance to everything. We split the bills three ways. Kyle and I had a great deal before the universe decided to rearrange my personal life like a Sims cheat code, and Jonah moved in after “their anniversary trip to Portland” (ugh), and now it’s just… this.

Also, he’s my brother. Jonah may be a hairy, handsy, loud-as-hell bear of a boyfriend now, but he’s still family. He still makes killer chili. Still beats me at Mario Kart and talks me down when I spiral. We’ve been through a lot. I can’t just walk away from that. Even if he now insists on calling Kyle “Cubby” in the mornings and I have to hear that term of endearment while brushing my teeth.

So I sit. I stew. I eat my microwaved mac and cheese while my brother and his boyfriend — my former roommate — turn the living room into a PG-13 nature documentary. I go to bed with headphones on. I’ve stopped using the shared laundry machine during the weekends because I kept pulling out towels that smelled like sandalwood and testosterone.

Sometimes I catch myself wishing it could go back to the way it was. Simple. Predictable. Quiet.

But then I look over and see them sharing a blanket, giggling over some dumb in-joke, Kyle planting a kiss on Jonah’s cheek like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I see the way Jonah glows when Kyle pulls him in for a hug. The way Kyle watches Jonah like he hung the stars.

They’re loud. They’re weird. They’re half-naked 80% of the time. But… they’re happy.

At least they’re happy.

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Oops I made a mess again

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