“And for suggesting that radical honesty was the only way forward,” Milo added. “Turns out you were right.”
As they spoke, I scrolled through their social media timeline, watching their relationship unfold in reverse. There they were at a bookstore—Honeybee Books, according to the location tag—Xavier and Milo flanking June as she held up a book, her face alight with joy. Another showed them at what looked like a test track, June in a company polo directing the guys on motorcycles. And further back, the post that had apparently made it official—a beautifully shot video of the three of them at an overlook, Xavier and June on his motorcycle, Milo joining them, the three exchanging kisses that managed to be both tender and scorchingly hot.
“I’ve been following your journey on Instagram,” I told them, clicking on a video where Xavier was teaching June to ride his motorcycle in an empty parking lot, her concentration evident, his hands hovering protectively nearby. “You guys are disgustingly photogenic, by the way. It’s almost offensive.”
June laughed. “That’s all Milo’s doing. He makes us look good.”
“I have excellent material to work with,” Milo replied, and I could practically hear the fond glance he must have been giving his partners.
“So tell me honestly,” I said, swiveling in my chair and pulling my knees up. “How’s it really going? Because from the outside, it looks like you’ve figured out the secret to polyamorous bliss, but I know that’s never the whole story.”
There was a pause, some muffled discussion, then June’s voice returned. “It’s complex. Beautiful and complex. We’re still figuring out the balance—who needs what and when. Sometimes I need more space than they’re used to giving, and sometimes Xavier disappears into his head when he’s struggling.”
“And Milo?” I prompted.
“Milo tries to fix everything for everyone and forgets about his own needs,” Xavier supplied. “But we’re learning. All of us.”
“That’s the work,” I agreed. “The beautiful, messy work.”
“I keep waiting for it to fall apart,” Xavier admitted suddenly, his voice quieter, stripped of its usual bravado. “Keep thinking this can’t be real, can’t last. That I’ll fuck it up somehow or they’ll realize I’m not worth the trouble.”
The raw vulnerability in his voice made my chest ache. I knew that feeling—the certainty that happiness was temporary, that you’d inevitably sabotage anything good that came your way. Had felt it myself after Ryan had walked out, leaving me with aring I never got to wear and the sickening feeling that I’d been naive to believe in forever.
“Xavier,” I said, keeping my voice gentle but firm, the same tone I used with callers who were spiraling. “That’s your trauma talking, not reality. Trust isn’t just something you either have or don’t—it’s a practice. Something you build, day by day, through consistent action.”
“She’s right,” June’s voice came through, soft with affection. “You’re doing the work, X. All of us are.”
“But how do I know it’ll be enough?” Xavier pressed. “How do I trust that this won’t just... end?”
“You don’t,” I said simply. “That’s the terrifying truth about love—there are no guarantees. But here’s what you do get: you get to decide, every day, to show up. To do the work on yourself, to recognize your patterns, to communicate even when it’s hard as hell. And you get to build something that’s worth the risk of heartbreak.”
I heard him exhale heavily. “Fuck, that’s not exactly comforting.”
“It’s not meant to be. It’s meant to be true.” I pulled at a loose thread on my sweater, weighing my next words. “Look, from one overthinker to another—stop waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s robbing you of the joy that’s right in front of you. These two amazing people have chosen you, are continuing to choose you every day. Try to let yourself believe that’s because you’re worth choosing.”
The silence that followed told me my words had landed. Finally, Milo spoke again. “We’re not going anywhere, X. No matter how hard your brain tries to convince you otherwise.”
“What he said,” June added. “Statistically speaking, relationships built on open communication and mutual respect have a significantly higher success rate.”
I laughed. “And that, folks, is June’s way of saying she loves you and isn’t planning to bail.”
“Exactly,” June confirmed, and I could hear the smile in her voice. “I’ve done the math. You’re stuck with us.”
Our conversation shifted to lighter topics after that—their channel’s growing success, June’s work on the electric motorcycle prototype, my upcoming live show in their area. By the time we said our goodbyes, promising to meet up when I was in Colorado for my tour, my heart felt full in that specific way that comes from witnessing people you care about finding their happiness.
I powered down my equipment, the studio falling into that perfect silence that always felt a little sacred—the space between recording, when ideas were still forming and nothing was fixed yet. These three had found something rare, I thought as I gathered my things. Not just love, but the courage to define that love on their own terms, regardless of convention or expectation.
As I stepped out of my studio into the main living area of my apartment, I pulled up another video on my phone—this onefrom Xavier’s account, showing the three of them in front of Honeybee Books. Milo was filming as Xavier picked June up, spinning her around while she clutched a stack of books to her chest, laughing in a way that made her whole face light up. When he set her down, she immediately turned and kissed him, then reached for Milo, pulling him into their embrace. The casual intimacy of it, the easy way they occupied each other’s space—it was beautiful to watch.
“Is that one of your sex therapy patients?”
I looked up, startled to find Troy rummaging through my refrigerator while Rhett sat at my kitchen island, already halfway through a sandwich that definitely contained ingredients I’d been saving for dinner.
“Jesus Christ!” I yelped, clutching my phone to my chest. “How did you two get in here? And they’re not patients—I host a podcast, I don’t treat people.”
“Your brother gave us the code,” Rhett said, taking another bite of his sandwich. His firefighter uniform shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a hint of the tattoo that stretched across his collarbone. “Said to check on you.”
“Ryker asked you to check on me, or to raid my refrigerator?” I crossed my arms, trying to look stern despite the fact that Rhett’s forearms were distractingly on display as he ate my food.
