Trenton tightens his grip. "Apologize."
"Sorry," Jason chokes out, eyes wide.
Trenton holds him a second longer before dropping him. Jason scrambles away. Matthew is suddenly beside me, his hand warm on my back. "You good?"
I nod, the words stuck in my throat.
That night, I text them: You don't have to protect me.
Matthew replies instantly: We want to.
A minute later, Trenton's message comes through: Always will.
I learn that Trenton's silence is its own language. That Matthew's easy charm hides razor-sharp edges. That they move through the world like it owes them and somehow, it always pays up.
I learn that I sleep better knowing they exist. That I breathe easier in their presence. That the cruel words hurt less when absorbed by their shield.
"Why me?" I ask them one night, sprawled across Matthew's basement couch, homework forgotten.
Matthew looks at Trenton. Some unspoken communication passes between them.
"Because you're ours," Trenton says simply.
I don't understand what he means. Not yet. But something deep inside me recognizes the truth of it, responds to it like a plant turning toward the sun.
The bullies don't stop, but they get smarter, more careful. The whispers continue, but they matter less. I am becoming a different person in the shadow of these two boys.
A year passes like a dream. I'm seventeen now, less awkward, more sure of who I am between them.
Tonight is senior prom. My dress is emerald green, Trenton's favorite color on me. I'm nervous, fingers trembling as I apply mascara.
"Morgan! They're here!" Mom calls up the stairs, her voice tight with excitement.
I take one last look in the mirror, smooth down the silky fabric, and descend the stairs.
They stand in our living room looking like sin in suits. Matthew in charcoal gray, his tie matching my dress, hair styled enough to look effortlessly perfect. Trenton in black, severe and beautiful, green cuff links catching the light. Both holding corsages.
But it's my father who commands the room. Dad sits in his armchair, cleaning his hunting knife.
"Sir," Trenton says, voice steady where lesser men would falter.
Dad looks up, expression granite. "You boys planning to take good care of my daughter tonight?"
"Yes, sir," Matthew answers, charm dialed to maximum.
Dad stands, knife still in hand. "Morgan's curfew is midnight. Not twelve oh one. Midnight."
"Understood," Trenton says.
"She doesn't drink. Neither do you while you're with her."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Matthew assures him.
Dad steps closer, knife glinting. "If anything happens to her, anything at all, they won't find enough of either of you to bury. Clear?"
"Crystal," they answer in unison.
Mom flutters in with her camera. "Isaac, stop terrorizing them. Pictures!"
