Page 57 of Picture Perfect

The chime of the lunch bell sends a flutter through my chest. Will one of them be waiting? I gather my books with a careful slowness, not ready to face the sea of whispers that awaits me in the hallway. They've been buzzing all morning, ever since one of them appeared at my side, always one of them, their presence an unspoken challenge to anyone who dared cross my path.

"Addy?" A familiar voice breaks through the chatter as I step out into the corridor, and I turn to see Chess leaning against the lockers. He's all casual confidence, his dark hair falling just so over hazel eyes that hold secrets deeper than the ocean. "Ready for lunch?"

"Is that what we're calling it?" My words come out sharper than intended, defenses high. He doesn't flinch, just offers me that half-smile that always seems to know more than it lets on.

"Let's call it an escape," he suggests, pushing off from the locker with an ease that belies the tension I notice coiling in his shoulders.

I follow him, keeping pace with his longer strides. The halls are a blur of faces, some curious, some wary. I can feel their eyes on us, hear the hushed tones. "Why are you doing this, Chess?" I keep my voice low, for his ears alone.

"Why not," he replies without looking at me, navigating us through the throng of students with a protective edge to his movements.

"People are talking."

"Since when do you care about rumors?" His question hangs between us, but I don't have an answer, not really. He places a gentle hand on my hip before sliding it under my backpack to rest just above the swell of my ass. I know he's not trying to cop a feel and though a traitorous part of me wishes he would, I'm grateful.

We reach the computer lab, its door ajar in invitation—or is it a trap? Chess holds it open for me, and I hesitate on the threshold. This is their sanctuary, a place where they reign supreme among wires and screens. It feels dangerous, like stepping into the den of wolves. But Chess is watching me with those knowing eyes, urging me forward without a word.

"Okay," I breathe out, crossing into their territory. The door swings shut behind us with a soft click, sealing us away from the outside world.

The computer lab is bathed in the sterile light of monitors. Saint is in a computer chair, his elbows resting on his knees and his back to me. Dre is sprawled across the couch like a king surveying his domain. They look up as Chess and I enter, expressions unreadable yet somehow welcoming.

"Addy," Saint's voice rumbles, low and commanding, "glad you could join us."

"Why are you doing this?"

Chess leans back against a desk strewn with gadgets and parts, arms folded across his chest. "You ask a lot of questions, Addy." His tone is gentle, but there's a steel underneath. And I'm reminded that I don't know these boys and I have no idea what they're capable of.

"Right," I mumble, tucking a stray lock of blonde hair behind my ear, feeling suddenly out of my depth.

"Trust us," Chess says, and I wonder if I ever could.

I nod, unsure how to navigate the charged atmosphere. The feel of Saint's hand on my waist sends an unexpected shiver down my spine. Dre's ice-blue eyes flicker with amusement, as if he can read every thought that crosses my mind.

"Got something for you," Saint says, standing up in one fluid motion. He moves towards me, his dark curls casting shadows across his brow. He removes my backpack and places it beside his chair.

"Sit," he instructs, pointing to the plush couch that seems out of place amid the tech clutter. His tone brooks no argument, but it isn't threatening—I don't know how to read it. I obey, sinking into the cushions, watching him warily.

He hands me a to-go container piled high with greens, ripe avocado, and cherry tomatoes, the colors vibrant against the white porcelain. Then, he places a bottle of coconut water beside me, its surface beaded with condensation.

"Eat," Saint tells me.

I hesitate, the sight of the Cobb salad igniting a war between gratitude and apprehension inside me. "I'm not really—"

"It's healthy." He cuts me off with a firmness that is somehow reassuring. I sense there's more at stake than just lunch, but his insistence feels oddly grounding. "You don't eat meat? Gen mentioned you might be a vegetarian." His dark eyes fixate on mine, searching, always searching.

I shake my head, not in response to his question, but from the baffling kindness that seems to flow from these boys like a language I've never learned to speak. "I—I do, it's just..." My voice trails off into silence, lost in the maze of my own confusion.

"Because I'll pick them out if you want," he offers, his large fingers poised over the glistening chunks of chicken as though ready to pluck the stars from the sky if I wished it.

"No, this is...thank you," I murmur, still clutching the fork like a lifeline.

"Saint's famous for his salads," Dre chimes in, manspreading further until his fingers brush up against the back of my neck. I shiver at the contact. "He won't admit it, but he's got a soft spot for healthy crap."

A laugh bubbles up before I can stop it, easing some of the tension coiled within me. Saint shoots Dre a glare, but there's no real heat behind it. It's the dynamic of brothers—of a family I can't quite understand, but am inexplicably drawn to.

"Healthy doesn't have to mean tasteless," Saint retorts, crossing his arms as he watches me take a tentative bite.

My gaze lowers to the container again, but the food might as well be a puzzle I can't solve, pieces that don't fit anywhere in the picture of my life.

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