Twins, My Two Husbands

They looked ridiculous—two huge guys suddenly silent.

I almost laughed.

“It's too late to kick you out now. Sleep here.”

Caleb's eyes lit up. “Really? I can stay?”

Ethan's voice calmed: “Thanks, baby. You're the best.”

“But tomorrow morning? Both of you leave. I don't want this circus.”

I turned toward my bedroom.

Ethan lagged behind.

“No following. Sleep on the floor.” I glared.

“But… two months without you.” Ethan sounded pitiful.

“Did I stop you? Or were you ‘busy'?”

“My fault. Won't happen again.”

“Yeah, ‘again' is debatable.”

“What does that mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like.”

I shut the door and locked it.

“Floor's yours. Blankets in the closet—you know where.”

“Got it.” His voice dropped. “Baby, I screwed up. Shouldn't have let him sub in. I was slammed—I didn't mean to ignore you.”

“I regret it. I let the wolf in.” Ethan sounded sincere.

I scoffed. “No apology needed.”

“Baby?”

“I don't care who I texted or saw. You look the same.”

He was quiet a moment. Then: “Good night, baby.”

That look—soft, but something darker underneath. Almost obsessive.

Terrifying.

I'd hooked up with two psychopaths.

“Bunch of lunatics.”

Around three a.m., half-asleep, I heard the doorknob rattle.

I sat up ready to yell at whoever tried to break in.

But outside came a flat, emotionless whisper:

“Locked. Of course.”

Long silence.

“So no sleeping with her tonight.”

Another beat.

“Next time.”

Then, same dead tone:

“Baby, I love you.”

“Only me. You can only like me.”

Footsteps faded—then stopped.

Another voice, low and angry:

“Ethan, what the hell are you doing lurking outside her door at three a.m.?”

Was Ethan—real Ethan—talking to himself?

No. To Caleb.

“You'll wake her. She sleeps light. If you disturb her, I swear—”

Cold snort.

“None of your business. She's mine.”

“Psycho.”

I stood there, heart hammering.

Two obsessed lunatics fighting over territory outside my bedroom.

I crawled back under the covers, wide awake.

Maybe I should've seen the red flags earlier.

When we first started dating, Ethan was textbook: distant, occasional half-assed texts, sporadic hangouts. Perfect, because I hated clingy guys.

We saw each other maybe twice a week—usually after my shift, at my place. Not much talking, just chill. Him barely speaking made him hot.

Then things changed.

He started showing up more, staying longer, talking more, sending huge paragraphs—breakfast pics, gym selfies, random thoughts.

I figured he was just warming up.

Turns out every time Ethan dipped, Caleb hijacked.

It was Caleb who memorized my cycle, stocked the fridge, left breakfast burritos and avocado toast with little notes.

Exhausting… but thoughtful in ways Ethan never was.

Sex? Caleb had moves. Positions, toys, pacing—three rounds and I'd be useless for days.

Ethan was good—great even—but vanilla.

Caleb was addictive.

No wonder I got hooked.

But now? Two stalkers. Two psychos.

How the hell do I handle this without drama?

The next morning, miracle—they were gone.

Apartment spotless.

Note on the fridge in marker:

Baby—got your favorites: oat-milk latte, Halo Top, spicy mango strips. Eat up.

I crumpled it to throw away… hesitated.

Flattened it. Folded. Pocketed.

Table had breakfast: breakfast burrito from my favorite 18th Street spot, iced matcha, sliced fruit.

Underneath another note:

Sorry I lied.

I never meant to trick you.

I just wanted to be close.

Talking to you, being with you—even as him—made me happier than anything.

Sometimes I wish I was Ethan so I could actually have you.

Do you only like smart guys? Is that why I lost?

I'd do anything.

—Your Caleb

Pining. Pathetic. Annoying.

And… kinda sweet?

I stuffed both notes in my hoodie pocket.

Grabbed a breakfast burrito and headed to campus.

Phone buzzed—a notification from “EthanCarter92”:

Message: Hey babe, family stuff. Stepping out for a bit. Back soon. Already missing you.

I didn't reply.

Pocketed the phone. Felt the notes crinkle.

Weird little pang in my chest.

I ignored it.