For a few precious minutes, we stood there, watching the sun sink lower toward the distant mountains, painting the sky in vivid oranges and pinks. The warmth of their bodies against mine, the scent of leather and wind-ruffled hair, the quiet joy humming between us—it felt perfect. Complete.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, shattering the moment. I pulled it out, heart skipping when I saw the caller ID. My mom. I answered, my heart hammering as I pressed the phone to my ear. “Hi, Mom.” “June Marie Ashbury.” Her voice came through tight and high-pitched, the way it always did when she was upset. “What exactly did you just send me?” Xavier and Milo both tensed beside me, their bodies going rigid as they realized what was happening. I straightened my spine, pushing my glasses up with my free hand—a nervous habit I couldn’t quite break. “A photo,” I said, keeping my voice steady even as my pulse raced. “Of me with Milo and Xavier. My boyfriends.” “Boyfriends?” The word came out strangled. “Plural? June, what are you talking about? This is—this is some kind of joke, right?”
“It’s not a joke, Mom.” I felt Xavier’s hand find mine, his fingers threading through mine and squeezing. The touch grounded me, reminded me why I was doing this. “I’m in a relationship with both of them. We’re together. The three of us.” “Together? June, that’s not—that’s not how relationships work. You can’t just—” She broke off, and I heard her say something muffled to my dad. Then his voice came through, deeper and more controlled but no less concerned.
“Junie, sweetheart, what’s going on? Your mother is very upset.” “I know, Dad. But I sent you that photo because I wanted you both to know that I’m okay. I’m in love, with two great guys who take care of me. So you can stop worrying.” “But June, this is—” My dad paused, struggling for words. “This is very unconventional. Have you thought this through? What about your career? Your reputation? What will people think?” Heat flared in my chest, not quite anger but something close to it. “Dad, I’m twenty-eight years old. I have a master’s degree from Stanford. I’m a successful engineer at a major tech company. I can make my own decisions about my personal life without worrying about what strangers think.” “We’re concerned about you,” my mom interjected, now on speakerphone. I felt Xavier tense beside me, his jaw tightening. I squeezed his hand harder, telling him to let me handle this.
I took a deep breath, forcing myself to stay calm and logical even as my heart raced. “I appreciate your concern, Mom, but you need to hear me out. These men—they’ve done more to support me than anyone except you and Dad. When I had a panic attack at work three weeks ago because of the pressure from the board meeting, Xavier raced to work to sit with me. He didn’t try to fix it or tell me I was overreacting. He just stayed.” “June—” my mom tried to interrupt, but I kept going. “And Milo—he helped me prep for my presentation on the motor redesign. He sat through hours of me practicing, gave me feedback, helped me organize my thoughts when I was spiraling. He made sure I ate when I forgot because I was too focused on work. They take care of me, Mom. They see me—not just the parts that are easy or convenient, but all of me.” There was silence on the other end. I could picture my parents in their kitchen, my mom gripping the phone too tightly, my dad hovering nearby with that worriedcrease between his eyebrows. “But June,” my dad said carefully, “this is such an unusual arrangement. Have you considered the complications? What if one of them wants something different later? What if—” “What if I get hurt?” I finished for him. “Dad, any relationship comes with that risk. But I’d rather take that risk with two people who make me happy than play it safe and be alone.” I paused, feeling Xavier’s thumb stroking the back of my hand, Milo’s steady presence at my back. “You need to trust me. Both of you. I know you love me and want to protect me, but lately you’ve been taking your worries too far.” “Too far?” My mom’s voice rose slightly. “June, we’re your parents. We’re supposed to worry.”
“There’s a difference between healthy concern and trying to control my life,” I said, surprised by how steady my voice remained. “You’ve called me seventeen times in the last two weeks. You’ve questioned every decision I’ve made since I moved out—my job, my car, where I live, who I spend time with. It’s too much.” I heard my mom make a small sound, somewhere between hurt and protest. My dad cleared his throat. “We didn’t realize,” he said quietly. “We were just—you’re our daughter, Junie. And after your diagnosis, after seeing how hard things were for you growing up, we just wanted to make sure—” “I know,” I interrupted, more gently now. “I know you worry because you care. And I appreciate you so much for that. But I’m not a child anymore, Dad. I’ve learned coping mechanisms. I have support systems. I have Milo and Xavier.” My mother was quiet for a long moment. “Do you… think we could meet them some time?” “Of course. And Milo’s mom says she’d love to meet you. Maybe you can come out and visit? I want a fun relationship with you guys, not a stressful one.” “Okay, honey. We’ll try,” my mom said. “It’s hard not to worry, though.” “I know. But tryingis all I ask for.” “We love you, sweetheart. We didn’t mean to add to your stress,” my dad added. “I love you, too,” I said. “But right now? I’m going to go for a…have some fun with my boyfriends.” I hung up, and Xavier smirked at me. “Didn’t want to tell them about the motorcycles, huh?”
“They said they’d try to worry less. I’m not pushing it.” “Good call,” Milo said, chuckling. There was a roar of motorcycles coming down the road, and Milo reached out and pulled us into a group hug, with Milo at my back and Xavier flush against my chest, creating a protective sandwich with me in the middle. The heat of their bodies surrounded me, Xavier’s chest solid against my front, Milo’s warmth pressed to my back. It wasn’t sexual, exactly—more like a declaration, a unified front.
“Better than any weighted blanket,” I whispered, and Milo laughed, tightening the hug. A group of bikers pulled up, and I recognized Dani as she pulled off her helmet and grinned at us. “Fuck, that’s hot.” “We don’t do it to make other people hot,” Xavier said. “We do it because we love each other.”
I felt Milo melt against my back, a small tremor running through him at Xavier’s public declaration. Xavier, who had always kept his feelings locked behind walls of sarcasm and deflection, was openly claiming us, openly saying the word “love” where anyone could hear.
The other bikers shifted, some nodding with approval, others looking away. Dani held up her hands in a gesture of surrender. “No offense meant,” she said. “I just think it’s cool you’re being open about it.”
“Agreed,” Vince said, then turned and headed back to his bike, the others following.
As they walked away, Milo’s arms tightened around my waist, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below my ear. “I love you,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “Both of you. So much.”
Xavier’s hand came up to cup my face, his thumb tracing my bottom lip with a tenderness that still surprised me. “What he said,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth lifting in that half-smile that always made my heart skip. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” I said, the words simple but heavy with meaning. “Both of you. Always.”
Epilogue
Xavier
Milo’s hands on thesteering wheel made my cock throb in my jeans. It was fucking ridiculous how everything he did these days turned me on—the way his thick fingers gripped the wheel, the slight furrow in his brow as he concentrated on the snowy road, even the way his tongue peeked out at the corner of his mouth when he navigated a particularly slick turn.
Six months ago, I’d have shut this shit down immediately, buried it under layers of denial and deflection. Now, I just let myself want him. Let myself slide my hand across the center console and palm his thigh, feeling the solid muscle beneath worn denim.
“Xavier,” he warned, his voice low and strained as my fingers inched higher. “I’m trying to drive here.”
“I’m not stopping you,” I replied, my hand continuing its journey until I found the growing bulge at his crotch. “Just providing some entertainment for the drive. My therapist says we should keep lines of communication open.” “Does your therapist know that you turn all of her advice into sex advice?” “Maaaaybe,” I said, grinning. “She says I’m doing better though. Might even be able to switch to twice a month.”
He smiled at me. “You are. I can tell.”
His breath hitched as I traced the outline of his hardening cock through his jeans. The truck hit a patch of ice, and Milo’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, knuckles going white as he corrected our path.
“Fuck,” he muttered, but he didn’t tell me to stop, and I could see his chest rising and falling more rapidly with each passing mile.
I unbuttoned his jeans—how many times had I done this now? Enough that the motion felt natural. The zipper went down with a metallic hiss that seemed too loud in the quiet cab of the truck, and Milo’s breath caught again as my cold fingers met the warm skin of his cock.
“You’re gonna get us killed,” he said, but there was no real heat in it. Just desire, thick and heavy in his voice.
“Not if you keep your eyes on the road.” I wrapped my hand around his thickness, stroking slowly. “Besides, we’re almost there, aren’t we? Better hurry before you blow your load in your pants like a teenager.”
Milo groaned, his hips shifting slightly despite his best efforts to stay still. “Fuck you.”
“Later,” I promised, giving him a squeeze that pulled another strangled sound from his throat.
The road stretched ahead, snow-covered fields on either side gleaming in the weak winter sunlight. My own cock strained against my jeans, painfully hard as I worked Milo with increasingly sure strokes. It still amazed me sometimes, how good it felt to touch him, to feel him respond to me. How easy it had become to admit—to myself, to him, to June—that I wanted this. Wanted him.
“Shit, we’re here,” Milo said suddenly, nodding toward the GPS. “Next right.”
