If someone had told me a few months ago I would be moving in with Tank, I would have laughed them straight out of the room. And after that, I would’ve sent them for a head scan to check for a brain tumor. The concept of me and Tank not only co-existing but living together and being friends? It’s damn hard to wrap my mind around.

Yet here we are, on a Thursday morning, bright and early, ready to load up my stuff into a rental van. Tank was here at eight sharp, bringing breakfast. Seriously, the guy made me sit down at the kitchen table and finish the bowl of Greek yogurt with granola and fresh strawberries he made for me.

Meanwhile, he threw the last of my clothes into some boxes I managed to confiscate from a convenience store around the corner. Say what you want, but Tank has a work ethic unlike many others. I guess we have that in common.

Paul and Lorie have made themselves scarce, which was to be expected. The last thing Lorie told me was that she expected me to leave my room “completely devoid of any personal possessions and clean enough to eat off the floor.” Paul cringed when she said that, probably because he’s starting to realize she was a lot more attractive as a long-distance girlfriend than as a live-in one. Good luck with that, asshat.

I’m rinsing out my bowl and putting it in the sink when the doorbell rings.

“Reinforcements,” Tank says.

I raise my eyebrows. “Were we expecting people?”

He smiles. “I don’t think you were, but I am. You didn’t think you had to do it all by yourself, did you?”

He beats me to the front door and throws it open, revealing a collection of barely awake Ballsy Boys. Campy looks like he literally rolled out of bed ten minutes ago, and Rebel is half-carrying Troy whose eyes aren’t even fully open yet. Bear grunts something resembling a greeting, while Pixie is his usually happy self and hugs me before I even know what’s happening. Heart is the only one who manages to look cool and stylish at this ungodly hour, but then again, he always does.

But I don’t care if they look grumpy and half-dressed. They’re here. I didn’t even think of asking them for help, which is kinda stupid now that I think about it. I mean, when Troy moved in with Rebel, we all helped, so why wouldn’t they do the same for me? This is one of those times where I want to slap myself for expecting to be ignored.

I turn around to Tank, who is watching me with unusual softness on his face. “Thank you, grizzly,” I say. I bend in and kiss him, a soft, lingering kiss that makes my stomach do weird things.

He puts his strong, big hand in my neck, squeezing gently. He doesn’t say anything, but I don’t need words. His face speaks volumes.

“You two are so sweet,” Pixie sighs. He’s studying us with big, mushy eyes, much like an emoji with heart-eyes. Whereas before, I would’ve said something snarky, I’m now content to let his words stand.

“Thanks for coming, guys,” Tank says.

The too-easy joke is on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it back, which earns me a look from Tank I can only describe as proud. Baby steps, I guess, but he’s right. I do need to stop playing the clown all the time and allow people to see more of who I really am, especially these men who are like family to me.

“Who’s in charge?” Bear asks. “Who’s gonna tell us what to do?”

It’s the weirdest thing, but I don’t even have to think about it. “Tank,” I say. “He’s got this all planned out.”

Within minutes, Tank has divided tasks. Rebel and Troy are dismantling two of my book cases that stood in the living room, Pixie and Campy are packing the last stuff into boxes, and Tank, Bear, and Heart have started taking down the first big pieces.

“You guys are moving in, huh?” Campy asks.

As far as everyone knows, we are really moving in. Not as roommates, but as boyfriends. Obviously, Bear and Rebel know better, but I don’t even know if Rebel told Troy. I assume he did, because that’s kind of a biggie to keep from your boyfriend, but for all I know, Troy knows shit. I’m certainly keeping up appearances, so I nod.

“Yeah,” I say. “It’s fast, but when I lost my room here it didn’t make much sense to spend a lot of time and energy into finding a new place. We’re moving my bed and stuff into Tank’s guest room since that was empty anyway.”

“That makes sense,” Campy says. “Though I would have loved to have you as a roommate.”

I throw my shoes into a box and fold it closed, then tape it to make sure nothing falls out. “Sure, but your new roomie is a pretty sweet deal, right?”

“What do you mean?” Campy says with uncharacteristic sharpness.

“Dude, the guy is hot as fuck with that whole cowboy thing he’s rocking, including that southern drawl. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice. His voice alone gave me a hard on.”

Campy is suddenly busy dragging a bunch of hangers from my closet, conveniently hiding his face. What is going on there? Did I hit a nerve somehow?

“He’s cool,” he finally says. “Jackson is hot, sure, but he’s also super nice.”

“No reason why he can’t be both,” Pixie pipes up. “I wouldn’t mind a roomie who looked like that.”

“He’s straight,” Campy says.

Ah. That explains the touchiness I detected earlier. Nothing worse than totally crushing on a guy, only to find out he’s straight. I wish I could assure Campy he’s wrong, but now that I think about it, I didn’t get any gay vibes off Jackson.

“That sucks,” Pixie says.

Campy shrugs, but it’s a little too nonchalant to convince me. “I’m not interested in him that way. You know I don’t date.”

Pixie puts his hands on his hips. “And why is that? Why aren’t you interested in finding a boyfriend?”

Another too-studied shrug. “Who needs a boyfriend when you’re a porn star and get to fuck the sexiest guys without any complications? Works for me.”

Six months ago, that would have been my answer. Hell, I’ve said those literal words on more than once occasion. And I believed them wholeheartedly, but something has changed. I don’t know what happened, but somewhere in the last weeks, months maybe, my views have changed. I have changed.

Yes, being a porn star is great, and I love my job, but it’s not the key to happiness. The primary reason I love it has nothing to do with sex and everything with friendship. It’s not the fucking that makes me keep doing it, even though I still consider it a fun way to make money. It’s the friendship with the other Ballsy Boys, the camaraderie. It’s the joking and the teasing and the affectionate hugging and kissing. It’s them showing up here this early to help me move.

“You know, I felt the same way,” I say.

How do I explain this without sounding like a complete nutcase? Or worse, like one of those people who’s suddenly seen the light and now preaches all day, every day and won’t shut up? I had a friend who discovered yoga after bashing it for the longest time, and he was fucking insufferable in his drive to convert people.

Campy looks up from the box he’s taping shut when I don’t continue. “You’re saying you feel different now?”

“Of course, he does. He’s with Tank now,” Pixie says almost indignantly.

As on cue, Tank walks into the room, wiping his face with his shirt. “You guys about done in here? We’ve dragged the big stuff down, so we can fill it up with the boxes now.”

“This is the last one,” I gesture to the box Campy is taping shut.

“Good. We’ll take a little break and then load up the boxes.” Tank studies me for a second, then walks into the kitchen and comes back with a bottled water and a banana. “Here. You need to eat something.”

“I’m not—”

“I wasn’t asking.”

I mutter something under my breath but obediently drink half the bottle before eating the banana. “You happy now?” I ask with a scowl.

Tank leans in and kisses me. “Get used to it.”

I stare at his broad back as he walks out. It hits me that this will take far less getting used to than I had imagined.

Pixie giggles. “And that’s why Brewer now loves having a boyfriend.”