Summary: Months after confessing a new curiosity to Wanda and Nat, the chance finally comes to explore it — and the way it makes you feel is far more intoxicating than you imagined. Nothing could’ve prepared you for how deeply it would reach.
Content Warnings: 18+, Lactation kink, breastfeeding kink, breast play, nipple play, fingering, mentions of strap (but not used), set boundries, nervous submissive, pet names, sub/domme dynamic, polyamory, F/F/F
Word Count: 2.4k
Reading Time: 12 Minutes
Authors Note: One of my favourite ones I wrote; I was so nervous to share it, but it hit well. I hope it hits well again.
Originally posted on @beekneelsformommy back in October
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You were too focussed on finishing the last of dishes that you didn’t even recognise that the front door had opened and shut again, or that a voice had called out to you, or that her footsteps were walking into the kitchen where you stood—brain thinking about so many things, about the way Natasha touched you and commanded you even with the smallest task, or the way Wanda traced her fingers over your skin forcing eye contact with every touch and thinking about your lips around—
“Hello, my little dove.” Natasha whispered with her warm breath against your skin, her arms wrapping around your waist as she pulled your shirt up, palms sitting just below your belly button. Your knees almost buckled at the gentle touch, your head leaning back into the curve of Natasha’s neck, letting out a soft sigh, feeling her embrace.
“Hi.” You whispered into her neck, the feeling of her arms around you made you feel like nothing else in the world mattered. Not the feelings of exhaistion or worry or sadness or anything else, because here, in this house, with Natasha, and Wanda when she eventually came home, they made you feel like you were the only person in their world.
You felt the way Natasha’s hands moved from your stomach, slowly, reverently, creeping up your warm skin, until she reached your chest underneath your top, the flutter in your stomach causing a small gasps to eascape. “Nat…” You whispered into the evening air.
“Yes, my love?” Natasha moved her lips to the side of your neck, pressing, pulling at your skin, leaving a bruising mark that would turn into a large love bite shaped heart soon enough. “Don’t act like you don’t want this…”
“I do, it’s just…” You began before your voice was cut of by a loud voice.
“Natasha!” The door slammed with an almighty thud.
“Yes detka? We’re in here.” Natasha called out, her hands suddenly moving from your body as she turned—and then Wanda walked in. Her blouse untucked, belt from her pants taken out, and not in sight, shoes and socks gone, clearly taken off as soon as she walked in.
Wanda let out the most frustrated, exhausted sigh you think you’d heard in a while and when you turned around, you suddenly saw the very reasoning. “Is that—”
“Yes.” Wanda snapped, “you’re coming with me now, and you Nat. Now.” Wanda muttered through her messy hair that had fallen around her face, and over her lips, blowing out some air to move the hair strands as she held out her hand for you to take.
Natasha grabbed your wrist yanking you forward, tea towel dropping from your grip. “Darling, I’d go to her, you’ve been waiting for this.” Natasha whispered with a kind of amusement in her her tone.
Your eyes travelled over the swell of Wandas breasts, seeing the wet patches on her shirt that covered her nipples. “Are you…leaking?” you ask, your stomach beginning to flutter from the need, imagining every detail of her breast that her shirt was covering.
“Yes.” Wanda stepped forward grabbing your hand, “and you wanted this baby, so now, you’re going to get exactly what you asked for…” her eyes looked over your shoulder towards her wife “Nat, come on” Wanda couldn’t help the small twitch of her lips, which told you she had more of an idea of what was going to happen than she was letting on, one of which Natasha was in on too.
The climb up to the bedroom felt like a mountain, and not because you were scared, it was almost the opposite. It was the nervousness you felt, the anticipation of something new, something you had asked for—had wanted, and Wanda had willingly said yes to you desires. So here you were, climbing the stairs, and absolutley no idea what you had let yourself in for.
Natasha although had been behind you on the stairs, now when you looked up she was suddenly in front of you both, opening the door to the bedroom and you followed her through, hand still clasped around Wanda’s who sat you on the edge of the bed. Her eyes sparkling green with her own need, her delicate scarlett painted nails came to the side of your face, trailing a line over your hot, puffy cheek and down your jaw line.
“Wanda?” You ask, looking up at her now darkened green eyes.
She taps your lips gently “Nu-uh, try again.” she whispers softly.
“Mommy?” You say this time, feeling the little race of your heart speeding up with Wanda’s touch and waiting for Natasha, who you could not see with your back to her as she rummaged in the walk in wardrobe.
“Yes, my love?” Wanda asked, a little softer now, but still laced with the desperation of a tone.
“When did…when did…” you couldn't even find the words really, but you could feel the heat creep up your neck as you looked towards her chest, the shyness overcoming you.
“Well after our discussion a couple months ago, Nat and I went and did some research into inducing lacation, and I ordered what I need to…and it took a while, but the last few weeks it’s really come in. Nat I wanted to be sure before we told you…and we are very sure.” Wanda smirked, crouching down in front of you, her fingers pulling at the waistband of your jeans, tugging them down your legs and off the end of your feet—she did the same again with your panties, discarding them on the floor.
You could feel the air touch your skin, and your legs began to tremble just a little as she stood back up. “Where are we darling girl?”
“Green.” you nodded, face looking away, your palms settled ontop of your knees.
“You sure? You’re shaking sweetheart, I don’t want you to do this if you’re not ready.” Wanda whispered, reminding you that no matter what, if you were not ready for anything, then you would never have to go forward with it, she made that abundently clear.
“Yes!” You said as fast as lightning, and a lot louder than you had meant to.
“Someones eager,” Nat grinned, popping her head out from the walk in wardrobe, her bare skin coming into view. “how do we feel about the strap tonight?”
“I, yes, I think so., I guess.” you nodded, looking up at Wanda for some reassurance, but you weren’t entirely convinced.
Wanda noticed.
She was always good at seeing what you sometimes couldn't say.
Her knuckle came to the side of your face stroking your cheek but her eyes were hesitant as she looked towards Nat who had vanished back into the wardrobe “Not tonight my love, another time though.” she murmerd, tucking a fallen piece of hair back behind your ear, leaning down to softly kiss the top of your head.
“Okay.” Natasha called back, and you could hear her putting stuff away, the sound of drawers closing reached your ears.
The relieve flooded over you as you removed your top, pulling it free over your head and throwing it down with the rest of your clothes. You sat waiting, until Wanda discarded her own clothes from her body, and you couldn’t help the breath that caught in the back of your throat as you saw her breasts come into full view right in your eye line.
“You like what you see, my sweet girl?” Wanda grinned, settling herself up against the headboard of the Queen size bed, her hand already squeezing a little on her breast allowing the almost clear, white liquid to appear in the tip of her nipple.
You nodded, quickly getting to your knees, the mere thought of licking the liquid from Wandas chest made your head go dizzy. Your eyes widened at the very visual in front of you. You held your breath watching the small beed dribble from her nipple and down her breast.
“Come here,” Wanda whispered, her legs spread, knees up, and you crawled towards her slowly, not too eager, despite the opposite feeling being true. Once you settled on your knees again right between Wanda’s thighs, her hand gravitated towards the back of your head pushing your head forward, forcing your lips to wrap around her nipple. “That’s my girl.” Wanda sighed, a moan from both of you escaped for different reasons, lifting into the air.
The sheet rustled beneath your knees as Wanda moved your body side ways, cradling your head against her breast, her hand moving slowly as you continued to suck—you couldn’t explain it, you didn’t know why this did it for you, but you could feel the heat between your own thighs growing stronger with each suckle. Wanda held your head there, not allowing you for a moment to move away.
The moment Natasha walked in the air changed, her eyes directly on you as you continued. “Pathetic girl.” Natasha’s warmth almost gone, but the smirk on her lips told you there was a sense of pride. She walked over to the edge of the bed, her hand came down to the inside of your thigh pushing your legs apart slowly, making you gasped, as you tried to to pull away from Wanda—but that was not going to happen.
“Sweet girl, where are we?” Wanda asked, allowing you a moment to respond before they went any further. You firmly tapped Wanda’s thigh three times, giving the signal for 'green' letting them know you were still very happy to continue.
“Good girl.” Natasha leaned down, her own knees dipping onto the mattress now, watching as you continued to suckle at her breast, small beads of milk dribbling down your chin, and every few minutes Wanda would wipe it away with the pad of her thumb, letting out her own gentle moans with each pull of milk that entered between your lips. “Keep her there Wands, our pathetic girl is soaking the sheets from sucking at your breast”
“Mmhh…” you tried, but it was no use, you swallowed more milk, the sweetness of it more intoxicating that you could have ever imagined.
“Still sweetheart, Mommys got you, just relax.” Wanda whispered, her voice always wrapping round you like bedding freshly put down, and pullling you in softly.
Natashas hand pushed your legs further apart until they were settled comfortably, almost touching the sheets below you. Her hand began tracing up the inside of your thigh slowly, watching the slow, small reaction from your body, your lips still around Wanda’s nipple “I bet,” Natasha whispered as her fingers delicatley got closer to the place you were needing her most “if I dipped just one finger into you, you’d soak my hands in a matter of seconds.”
You let out a sort of groan, lips vibrating against Wanda’s breast and you couldn’t help but suckle and swallow down another gulp of milk. Your heart hammering in your chest, your stomach felt like a volacano full to the brim of desire, and you knew with everything in you that Natasha was right, and all you could do with Wanda’s hand on the back of your head keeping you against her breast was suck and swallow and moan and whimper, and just lean into this feeling of love, safety and connection—because you didn’t want this feeling to ever leave you.
Natasha took her time stroking up the inside of your thigh, kissing slowly, chuckling as you wimnpered from the touch. “God Wands look at her, our needy, pathetic girl, drooling all over you and soaking her thighs like it's her job.”
“Indeed she is detka. Our sweet girl sucking on me and dripping on the sheets, god just look at her, she loves this.” Wanda whispered, leaning into your ear.
Unexpectedly, and in the next moment two of Natasha’s fingers pushed into you, all too easily making you moan out around Wanda’s nipple, the squelch sounding out. Natasha's other hand moved up to your breast “Lets see how quickly you come with my pinching your nipple as well, hmm? focus on me,” you went to move you mouth, to pull away, but Wanda shook her head, keeping you there “oh no, focus on me whilst drinking mommys milk.”
“Mmmhh,” is all you could really manage, but Natasha's fingers began to pinch and twist at your nipple rolling it between her thumb and finger, her other hand—two fingers sliding into you making you moan again, your whole body pushed further down into her hand, and you wanted to cry out, to scream ‘please, more, more, more,' but you couldn’t, not with your mouth forceably wrapped over wanda’s nipple, sucking and feeling the warmth of her milk continue to slide down you throat.
“Good girl, keep your mouth right there, thats’s it.” Natasha’s fingers moved harder, sissoring inside of you, then moving them back out, and in again curling them upwards until you were arching your back, lips sticky with milk as you moaned.
Natasha was unrelenting, even when you tried to push further into her hand, she held you down “stop that.” she slapped the inside of your thigh in warning, but she could feel, she knew you were right on the edge, the way you body was beginning to tremble just slightly, your suckling was faster now, which made Wanda moan out herself in pleassure, and then as soon as Natasha's thumb pressed on your clit, rolling it, not even for that long, your body gave out.
Your back arched, your thighs shook, muscles tightning, your mouth fell away from Wanda and the orgasm ripped through your shaking body, with you whimpering and moaning Natasha’s name, your head leaning back onto Wanda’s chest, but not sucking on her nipple anymore, just hiding your milk and tear stained face, gasping as the last of the orgasm fell over you and onto Natasha’s hand.
Both of them laughed softly, Wanda kept you close, running her fingers through the back of your hair, “well my little dove, I reckon we will doing that again, don’t you?”
All you could do was let out an exhausted breath, but you nodded, hearing Natasha chuckle as she licked her finger clean and pushed your thighs shut again “Oh we will be, never seen her come so hard or quickly before. Our pathetic little dove.”
Summary: Months after confessing a new curiosity to Wanda and Nat, the chance finally comes to explore it — and the way it makes you feel is far more intoxicating than you imagined. Nothing could’ve prepared you for how deeply it would reach.
You can now read this story here on the blog I have moved to @wandanatsbee
Rouge & Gambit, Invis & Mr. Fan, Phoenix & Cyclops x chronic! reader
Throuple scenario
When times get rough, always project your problems onto characters ❤️
Masterlist
CW// mostly focused on joint pain, throuples, being taken care of
To say these two take care of you well is the understatement of the century. Both Anne and Remy are strong willed, and determined to make sure you are comfortable at all times.
Anne usually takes care of anything physical. If you have trouble getting up or down stairs for whatever reason, she'll gently pick you up and walk them for you. There's been a few embarrassing times where she's found you sitting in the middle of the stairs, totally dejected because you overestimated yourself for the day- but she's nothing but comforting, letting you know she thought it was great you got as far as you did, and that she's happy to help the rest of the way. If you don't want to be carried, she'll let you lean on her and guide you instead, going at your pace the entire time.
Remy handles other things like chores. He's more than happy to cook a warm meal for you, and even more happy to sit in bed and eat with you. If your hands shake, don't worry, he's got scarily steady ones that will help you. He helps with chores that take it out of you, happy to sit on the floor side by side as the two of you fold laundry and probably watch a TV show- something like real housewives. If you can't get around to doing something he's on the job, no need to apologize for it, what's an extra load of dishes anyways?
Both of them carry around any medication you might take, be that an injection or pills, they are READY.
Every step of the way they are nothing but encouraging. They are pillars of support ready to catch you at all if you fall, to hold you up as you regain balance and stand high once more.
They coddle, but not as much. Well, Susan doesn't coddle as much, Reed definitely does.
Reed is someone who feels like if he isn't helping every second of the day then he isn't useful, so to say he's a bit of a helicopter is laughable. Of course, he doesn't ever want you to feel as though you're incapable of doing things on your own, it's just that why bother doing something and possibly hurting yourself when he can easily do it. He doesn't realize how bad of an ideology that is, and has been scolded on multiple occasions by basically everyone in his life that has common sense.
Susan is always there for you, but she's more there for encouragement. She'll sit in bed and rub her hands against your back, encouraging you to get up and giving you any medications you take. She's always got her hand in yours, but she doesn't let you know it's because she's worried all the time.
Both of them enjoy seeing you be independent, getting up and working on your own. It gives them a sense of pride that you're pushing through, that you're brave enough to try things that might be physically taxing and push through even when your bones start to hurt like hell.
Of course, the Baxter building is completely formatted to accommodate you. Elevators, ramps, hell even one of those wall chairs that move up and down stairs that Johnny probably uses more than you is there. All of it was meticulously done by Reed, even when Susan told him to tone it down a little, he just can't help it.
On rough days, they both wrap their arms around you and squeeze you tight, pressing kisses against your face. They claim they're squeezing the bad day out of you, wringing you dry like a towel, except instead of water it's the bad vibes from the day. Whether it's scientifically real or not is questionable, but if Reed says it's scientifically proven to work who are you to question?
Both of them are worry warts. Big, fat, worriers. They try and be nonchalant but it's hard to hide how much they care for you, how much they want to be there and help.
Scott is the more hands on one. He'll let you grab his arm and lean on him like a life support as you do stuff, helps you do chores like drying the dishes after you hand wash them and changing out the laundry- because it's such a tedious task. It's never a burden to him to help you, and he always jokes that if he had it his way your feet would never have to touch the ground again, that he'd carry you everywhere you want to go without a single complaint. Take advantage of that, and make him do just that, please he wants to be helpful so bad.
Jean is more on the silent side, sort of off to the side work you don't even realize needed to happen. She's helping make the x-mansion more accommodating, preparing things you don't even realize would be tedious to do like pre-chopping ingredients for meals. She's the type to always cut your apple slices for you, to peel your orange without you ever having to ask, and she does it without a single word. You don't even have to ask, she's already there and ready to help.
Neither are very vocal in their worry of offers to help, they're just... There. Hands resting encouragingly on your back and waiting for you to ask for anything. They would give you the world, should you ask.
Bonus, but these two run a bit on the hotter side and it is HEAVENLY. Their combined warmth during the night is to die for, their arms wrapped around you so you're perfectly sandwiched in-between them, it settles into your bones and for the night you aren't left staring at the ceiling being unable to sleep due to the uncomfortable buzzing in your head.
☾‧₊˚ ⋅ ― female reader. no description of features. no mentions of size or race. Mentions reader being younger then them but age is up to you. My requests are open.
🇲🇦🇸🇹🇪🇷🇱🇮🇸🇹 💜🇲🇦🇸🇹🇪🇷🇱🇮🇸🇹 II
𝗛𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗰𝗮𝗻𝗼𝗻𝘀:
Ragnar and Lagertha are relentless in their pursuit. They are both intense, dominant personalities who know what they want—and what they want is you. Once they decide you should be part of their relationship, they make it obvious.
They flaunt their relationship openly. Ragnar will press kisses to Lagertha's throat while staring at you, or Lagertha will run her fingers through his hair while smirking in your direction. They aren't subtle. They want you to see how passionate they are—and imagine yourself between them.
Lagertha is the more direct of the two. She's bold, confident, and unafraid to flirt shamelessly. She will whisper suggestive things in your ear, brush her fingers along your arm, and let her gaze linger on you with unmistakable interest.
Ragnar is playful and teasing. He likes to test boundaries, offering honeyed words in that deep, knowing voice, always pushing just enough to see your reaction. He'll casually mention how good you'd look in his furs or how Lagertha has taken a liking to you.
You are treated like a prize to be won, but they don't pressure you, but they seduce you in a way that feels inevitable. Every interaction is a battle of willpower, and they have an unfair advantage—they work as a team.
Their protectiveness is intense. Even before you agree to anything, they treat you as theirs. If anyone dares look at you with disrespect, Ragnar's hand is already on his axe, and Lagertha is seconds away from throwing a dagger.
They are patient. Ragnar and Lagertha know you're younger than them, so they don't rush you. They enjoy the chase, savoring every moment of tension and desire. You are their obsession, and they are willing to wait until you come to them.
𝗥𝗲𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗽 𝗧𝗿𝗼𝗽𝗲𝘀:
Thinks He's In Charge (Ragnar) x Is Actually In Charge (Lagertha) x Knows They're Not In Charge (You)
Power Couple + Their Soft Obsession – Ragnar and Lagertha are the ultimate Viking power couple: strong, deadly, and deeply in love. But when it comes to you, they are patient, devoted, and willing to play the long game.
Hunted by Love – They relentlessly pursue you, drawing you further into their web with heated glances, suggestive words, and overwhelming presence. You're not just being courted—you're being claimed.
𝗥𝗼𝗺𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗣𝗹𝗼𝘁 𝗧𝗿𝗼𝗽𝗲𝘀:
The Reluctant Third Who Falls Harder Than Either Expected
Slow Burn with Unbearable Tension
Inevitable Destiny
𝗥𝗲𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗽 𝗧𝗵𝗲𝗺𝗲 𝗦𝗼𝗻𝗴:
Monster – Starset
Come with Me Now – KONGOS
Animals - Maroon 5 (slowed) & Reverb
🔞𝗡𝗦𝗙𝗪🔞:
They want to overwhelm you. Once you finally give in, expect no escape from their attention. Every touch, every glance, every word is designed to ruin you. They want you to crave them as much as they crave you.
Ragnar is an instigator; Lagertha is in control. Ragnar loves to provoke reactions, whispering filthy promises, making sure you see exactly how much they enjoy each other. Lagertha, on the other hand, decides when and how you are finally theirs.
They love to watch each other with you. There is something deeply possessive in the way they share—both completely devoted to one another but equally devoted to you.
Lagertha takes her time with you. She's the one who will pin you down, whispering against your lips, testing your limits while Ragnar watches, amusement and desire gleaming in his eyes.
Ragnar is primal and relentless. He lives for pleasure—yours, Lagertha's, his own. He loves seeing you surrender under their hands, knowing it was inevitable from the start.
They make you feel like a goddess. Every single time, you are worshiped and revered as something sacred.
They have wanted you for so long, and once you give in, they will ensure you never regret it. Ragnar is passionate and overwhelming, Lagertha is slow and deliberate—but together? Utterly devastating.
They enjoy drawing out your pleasure—Ragnar loves to watch you squirm, while Lagertha enjoys the slow, intimate moments, ensuring you feel completely adored.
If you are shy or inexperienced, they will be patient and encouraging, letting you take your time. They want you comfortable and willing.
𝗜𝗻𝗱𝗶𝘃𝗶𝗱𝘂𝗮𝗹 𝗛𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗰𝗮𝗻𝗼𝗻𝘀:
𝐋𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐚 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐅𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫
Lagertha is protective, sometimes to the point of possessiveness. She ensures you are safe, strong, and independent—but also that you know you belong with her.
Lagertha is soft yet firm—she knows what she wants, and she does not hesitate to tell you.
She will teach you to fight if you are not a warrior, her hands guiding yours over the hilt of a blade.
Lagertha adores worshipping you—she will take her time in every intimate moment, making sure you know just how treasured you are.
She is the one who comforts you when you are unsure, reassuring you that you are not just an addition—you are a part of them.
She is intense and deliberate, taking her time to map out every inch of your body. She enjoys seeing you undone beneath her.
Romantic Gestures:
Teaching you how to fight, braiding your hair with flowers, and giving you small but meaningful gifts.
𝐑𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐚𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐅𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫
Ragnar is playful and enigmatic. He makes you laugh but also challenges your mind. He sees your potential and will push you to embrace it.
Ragnar enjoys the chase—he will smirk, taunt, and push you until you break and admit you want him too.
He will test your resolve, seeing if you can match his sharp tongue and quick wit.
When he finally claims you, there is no question—you are his, and he will not let you go.
Ragnar loves seeing you between him and Lagertha, knowing that together, you are unstoppable.
He is a mix of dominance and worship—he can be rough, but always in a way that makes you feel adored. He loves teasing and watching you struggle to hold back.
Romantic Gestures:
Long philosophical talks by the fire, small pranks, overwhelming and sudden displays of passion.
🖊️ by @skzot8forever
💗 SKZ OT8 x Reader
🏷️ Choose-Your-Own-Adventure
Your relationship with your eight boyfriends has really fallen apart -- until someone books tickets to a staycation in a farmhouse. Can you mend your relationship with all of them, and bring back that spark you all once shared?
Before the relationship began to break down, you were all noticeably at the happiest points of your lives, surrounded by the love and affection of your partners. Bang Chan, Minho, Changbin, Hyunjin, Jisung, Felix, Seungmin and Jeongin were your favourite people in the world, point blank.
It made it just that much harder that between the eight of them and yourself, all of you had either become extremely defensive and tense, completely withdrawn or hopelessly attempting to fix things.
If only it was that easy.
You twist your key in the door, letting out a breath when it opens.
"I'm back!" you call out softly, not expecting a response but still announcing your presence nonetheless.
What do you do first?
READ/PLAY HERE to make your choice and see what happens next! (๑ᵔ⤙ᵔ๑)
Series Pairing: husband!Joel Miller x f!Reader x boyfriend!Frankie Morales
Series Summary: Joel is your rock, and Frankie is your ocean. So what happens when you bring the three of you together?
- or -
you and Frankie roadtrip up from Southern California to Northern California so he can meet Joel. A polyamory fic. This series exists in the Triple Frontier universe and is a Joel Miller AU/Triple Frontier AU.
Series Rating: Explicit, 18+ only, MDNI
Chapter 3: Mill Valley
Chapter Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!Reader x Joel Miller
Chapter Summary: The three of you are finally together, and sparks ignite passionate flames that will change everyone.
Word Count: 8.8k - get a snack, it’s a long one!
Rating: Explicit, 18+ only, MDNI
Warnings/tags: polyamory, consumption & preparation of food and alcohol, MFM dynamics, MMF dynamics, brief masturbation, oral (f and m receiving), unprotected p in v sex (wrap it up, folks!), multiple orgasms, orgasm denial, multiple creampies, cum kink, cum eating (Frankie is a bit of a cumslut tbh), squirting (there’s a lot of fluids lol i’m sorry in advance if that’s not your thing), slight size kink, gratuitous descriptions of male and female anatomy, heavy use of Spanish pet names/nicknames/phrases, Frankie and Joel are switches in this one, sub!Reader, Frankie the PEK, consent kings, Joel’s filthy mouth is absolutely its own warning but Frankie’s gets one too this time, romance, idiots in love, a splash of angst, soft!Joel but also menace!Joel because we love a man with duality, brief mention of Frankie’s young daughter named Isabella, brief mention of parental & relative deaths, Reader uses she/her pronouns, Reader is able-bodied, has breasts, and has hair that can be pulled, otherwise no description of Reader's skin color, size, body shape, hair color, eye color, or ethnicity, no use of y/n. Everyone is testing negative for STDs and Reader is on birth control.
a/n: the moment you’ve all been waiting for! This chapter was a labor of love because I wanted to get the dynamics *just* right. These three are so special to me, and I would be remiss if I didn’t mention @for-a-longlongtime (who also beta read), @mountainsandmayhem (my daddy and beta reader), and @alltheirdamn - my lovely girlies who helped me shape this story. Shoutout to @mermaidgirl30, @joelmillerisapunk, @sin-djarin, and @yxtkiwiyxt who I’ve given little previews of so we could scream together about them. Please let me know if I’ve missed any tags! Dividers & banners by the lovely @saradika-graphics, thank you. (Please note that the chapter graphic is NOT meant to be accurate to Reader — vibes only!)
If you enjoy my writing, please leave a comment, feedback or reblog! It would mean the world to me. Thank you!
“I don’t know why they call it the Golden Gate Bridge when it’s red and not gold.”
You roll your eyes hard as Frankie snorts at his own awful joke, and turn your attention to the blue-gray waters below you & the bridge. The breeze whips through your hair and the Jeep’s interior, ruffling your boyfriend’s dark brown curls peeking out from under his trusty Standard Oil ballcap.
“One more bad joke and I’m going to toss you off the Marin Headlands when we get over the bridge,” you quip at him.
Frankie grabs your hand, kissing the back of it with a smack. “You would never, hermosa.”
A bright smile lights up your face as you look at him. “You’re lucky that you’re so cute, Morales.”
After an early breakfast in Santa Cruz, you and Frankie continued northwards on your road trip. You opted to drive I-280, the highway providing fantastic views of the lush evergreen trees and rolling hills you loved so much. Frankie couldn’t get over how wildly green it all looked, especially since he’d spent so much time in Los Angeles amongst the concrete and manicured lawns.
You’d stopped for lunch at your favorite San Francisco dim sum restaurant, hotly debating with Frankie which one of the many bamboo steamer rounds contained the best dish - your favorite is xiao long bao, while Frankie favors black bean pork spareribs. Both of you agreed that the dan tarts were amazing, so you’d bought a few to-go for Joel to savor later. Now, you’re driving across the Golden Gate Bridge into Marin County, heading towards your and Joel’s house in Mill Valley.
You sigh and pull the forest green plaid button up a bit tighter around you; despite the sun peeking through, it’s still cold, per usual for this time of year in the north Bay Area.
Frankie clocks your movement, and smirks knowingly at the shirt. “Does he know you took it?”
“Maybe,” you purr mischievously. “He’ll know soon enough if not.”
Huffing a laugh, Frankie turns back to the road, flipping on the turn signal before hooking a right onto your residential street. Majestic redwoods line the road, towering overhead, and you sigh in relief and comfort at the familiar sight. Living here with Joel makes you feel closer to nature than your apartment in Los Angeles. The stress melts out of your bones with each breath of fresh air.
As you drive down the quiet street, you see your beautiful house appear. Slightly younger redwoods surround both sides of the corner lot property, isolated from your next-door neighbors. The two-story craftsman home is spacious but cozy, with warm-stained cedar shingles wrapping around the exterior, complimented by deep sage trim. Native plants thrive in the front yard, and smoke leisurely meanders from the chimney, lending an enchanted ambiance. It’s the perfect balance of your and Joel’s vibes: a modern forested haven.
Frankie approaches your river-rock paved driveway, pulling in carefully next to Joel’s well-worn charcoal pickup truck. Your heart swells in happiness at the sight of it. Following, however, are tiny pings of nervousness and excitement. You glance at Frankie; his expression is calm but unreadable. Typical of Frankie – his Delta Force background and introverted personality mean that he habitually retreats a bit into himself in new situations to observe quietly. Squeezing his hand, you give him a soft smile, which he returns as he squeezes your hand back and puts the car into park. It feels a bit strange to have your boyfriend in a place foreign to him but so familiar to you.
You hear your front door squeak open before you see Joel’s broad frame exit, dashing in a denim button up and his Levi’s. The double-denim outfit would look ridiculous on most other men, but not Joel; the weathered blue only enhances his rugged handsomeness.
Popping out of the Jeep, you call out, “Hi, baby!” while bounding over to him. His eyes flit over you, an amused look on his face when he spots your overshirt.
“I was wonderin’ where my favorite flannel went,” he chuckles. “Should’a known you were gonna take it with you.”
“It’s my favorite too,” you quip back, setting down the box of dan tats for Joel on the driveway so you can wrap your arms around his neck. You press a kiss to his full lips. “I can borrow it whenever I want. Wife privileges, you know.”
Joel rolls his eyes but smiles, giving your backside a soft smack and laughing when you yelp playfully. “Get your cute ass inside. We’ll take care of the luggage, baby.” You squeal in delight and nod, picking the box back up and heading towards the house. Frankie swings open the tailgate, removing his and your bags from the back.
Joel rounds the car, and Frankie takes a breath to steady himself. Everything is going to be fine.
“Hey, Frankie,” Joel greets the other man with a warm handshake and a clap on the shoulder.
“It’s so great to meet you in person, Joel,” Frankie says warmly. The two men look at each other for a moment, and then Frankie bends to pick up your luggage at the same time Joel does. Their hands brush at the handle and both jolt a little at the contact.
Frankie pulls back sheepishly, bringing a hand to the back of his neck in embarrassment. “Ah, I’ll let you take your wife’s things, I guess,” he sputters a bit. God, why do I feel so awkward with Joel? He literally told me to eat out his wife on video chat.
“You mean our girl,” Joel corrects before smiling at Frankie warmly, lifting the case with ease and tipping his head towards the house as he walks towards it. Frankie smiles tentatively at him and nods, a bit relieved, and grabs his own bag. “C’mon,” Joel says, “let’s get these bags inside so both of you can settle in a bit before we start prepping for dinner.”
Once the guys drop off the luggage into the entryway, you and Joel lead Frankie on a tour of your house. Dark hardwood floors contrast with the muted tones of the walls, each room a different soft color. The furnishings are modern with a slight vintage flair, creating a cozy yet refined atmosphere. A wood-burning fireplace sits in the corner of the living room, a fire softly crackling inside. You explain where each of your favorite decor and furniture items came from – you and Joel tend to patronize the local thrift markets and mom & pop shops, which creates a softly eclectic feel.
Frankie runs his hand across the back of the plush cream couch as he looks up at the skylights in the ceiling. “Tons of natural light, that’s awesome,” he notes.
“That was my one non-negotiable when we were looking at houses,” you note. “Say what you want about marriage being a compromise, but that was one thing I couldn’t imagine living without.”
Joel nods. “If she doesn’t get enough light durin’ the day, especially in the winter, she gets in a bad way,” he notes. You scoff at your husband’s (admittedly astute) observation.
“Oh, I’ve noticed,” Frankie chuckles, admiring the bank of wide windows across the kitchen and the sets of French doors leading out to the enclosed patio and backyard. “One time in December, I caught her sunning herself like a lizard in this little shard of light coming into my living room.”
“Frankie!” you gasp in false indignation, eyes darting between the two of them as they suppress laughter. “Not even an hour in and you’re already ganging up on me? How rude.”
“That’s our girl,” Joel smirked, clapping Frankie on the shoulder as he leads the way towards the stairs to show him the bedrooms.
Our girl. Warmth seeps into Frankie’s heart as he follows Joel upstairs.
While you unpack your bags, Joel and Frankie head out to the nearby corner grocery for dinner supplies and the adjacent liquor store for some of the new shipment of Japanese whiskey that the store’s owner, Bill, had set aside for Joel.
Talking with Frankie is surprisingly easier than Joel thought it would be. He’s a bit more serious than Frankie, sure, and there’s a difference in age, but they have quite a few common interests; it turns out that both of them are football fans, for one. While Joel is a diehard Houston Texans fan, Frankie roots for the Los Angeles Rams. Despite their difference in football fandoms, they both are avid grillers. They also both fish: Joel prefers lake fishing and Frankie loves to go on ocean fishing excursions. Surprisingly, you’ve managed to turn them both into unironic fans of The Great British Bake-off – they agree that the camaraderie and wholesome nature of the show is a balm to the sometimes-cruel world.
As it turns out, they’re also similar in their values.
“For most of my adult life, it’s just been me and my brother, Tommy,” Joel explains, shifting the grocery tote on his shoulder as they walk back to the house. “Our parents died when we were teenagers, and then our only aunt in California passed away when I was 21 and Tommy had just turned 18. He was — is — a pain in my ass, but he’s my brother, so I did what I could to take care of the two of us. That meant workin’ in construction to make ends meet, and bailin’ his ass out after he came back from the Army and kept getting into trouble.”
Frankie huffs as he shakes his head. “I… can relate to that on a few levels. Mi mamá raised me alone in east LA. All we had was each other. When I got old enough, I joined the Army, too. Made it into the Delta Force.”
“That ain’t easy,” Joel notes, waving to the owner of the shop across the way.
Sadness flashes across Frankie’s face, but he quickly schools it, the operative in him taking over. “Yeah. My teammates and I ended up out in Florida after we left. Sort of became each other’s family.” He swallows hard.
Joel doesn’t miss the shift in emotions. “My brother was in Operation Desert Storm,” he explains. “The kind of shit they experienced together sort of… trauma bonded them to each other.”
Frankie nods in agreement, then hesitates, looking unsure. Joel knows from experience with his brother that military members aren’t often keen on sharing their vulnerabilities with others. He can’t imagine it’s any easier given he’s the husband of Frankie’s girlfriend.
They both stop to admire a miniature train set in motion in the window of a toy store. After a few moments, Joel turns to Frankie.
“I know you’ve had your fair share of difficulties, but I want you to know that you only have to tell me what you want me to know,” Joel says softly. “I’m practically a stranger, so I’m not expectin’ you to divulge your deepest secrets to me. But know that whatever you say, I won’t be passin’ judgement.”
Frankie exhales a shaky breath, clearly relaxing at Joel’s reassurance. He begins to walk towards the house once again, Joel falling into step by his side.
“I had a rough go of things after our last mission,” Frankie murmurs. He grows quiet for a few breaths, concentrating his gaze on the pavement under his feet as they walk. “To straighten myself out, I moved back to LA. Despite everything I’d done and been through, my mom never wavered in her support of me. And after a while, my daughter and her mother also moved back so we could share custody again. So, family is really important to me, too.”
He takes a deep breath, looking over at Joel, whose eyes haven’t wavered from his. A sense of recognition hangs palpably in the air between them. Joel’s never held anything against anyone who’s struggled in their life, especially if they’ve proven they can turn things around. He saw it with Tommy, and he can see it in Frankie’s countenance clear as day.
“I’m glad to hear that,” the older man says simply, giving Frankie a small smile. Although they’d met less than 12 hours ago, Joel feels far more comfortable around him than he imagined he’d be.
Maybe this wouldn’t be so hard after all.
The incredible smells wafting from the kitchen wake you from your nap. Stretching your limbs, you climb out from under your sherpa blanket and pad to the kitchen. You smile softly, quietly taking in the scene before you. Joel is chopping green onions on the kitchen island while Frankie mixes broccoli, cauliflower, and carrots in olive oil, sprinkling in seasoning between tosses. Pearl Jam plays softly from the bluetooth speaker.
“Whatever you’re making smells so good,” you purr at Joel, kissing his neck and peering over his shoulder.
Joel chuckles. “That’s all Frankie, baby,” he says, motioning towards your boyfriend with his chin. “He’s makin’ us his famous roast chicken.”
You squeal excitedly. “Oh my god, yay! It’s one of my favorite things he makes!” Hopping over to Frankie, you wrap your arms around his waist and mold your body to his back, peppering kisses across his broad shoulders. He sets the bowl of vegetables down, wiping his hands on a towel before turning to face you.
“Joel mentioned that you’ve talked about it ad-nauseum so he finally wanted to try it for himself,” Frankie explains, placing his hands on your waist. “And you’ve hyped up Joel’s cheesy garlic bread, so I figured it would be a fair trade.”
You beam at Frankie, thrilled that the two of them are seemingly getting along great. “Your signature dishes! This is awesome.”
“It’s pretty much all I can make besides grilled meat and breakfast food,” Joel laughs while he mixes the garlic bread spread.
You giggle, draping your arms around Frankie’s neck as you look at your husband. “You’re lucky I like cooking; our cholesterol levels would be through the roof if it was up to you to provide sustenance.”
“And I thank the heavens every day that you do, sweetness,” Joel demures, pressing a kiss to your forehead as he walks around you and Frankie to grab the cut baguette for the garlic bread.
You turn to Frankie and notice emotions fighting across his face - warmth, admiration, and hesitation. He’s been reserved with his displays of physical affection since arriving, despite his usual habit of almost always keeping his hands on you at any given moment. To reassure him, you pull him into you and kiss his lips softly. He hums quietly and returns the kiss. Pulling back, he cups the sides of your face and caresses your cheeks with his thumbs, his eyes gentle, earthy pools of devotion.
Your heartbeat kicks up. Emotions flood your mind as memories of the road trip play in your mind, Frankie’s eyes searching yours while you breathe each other’s air. Words unspoken seem to thicken the space between the two of you.
The nervousness about Frankie meeting Joel has faded throughout the day — he fit so well into your dynamic with Joel that it almost felt like he’d always been there. Now, the fluttering in your stomach has more to do with why.
Your lips part, about to bring your feelings to the surface, but before you can, Frankie shifts slightly to gently smooch your forehead, then picks up the bowl of vegetables again. Your breath whooshes from your chest quietly, your lips pressing together. He turns his attention back to cooking and spreads the produce across a baking sheet.
“Do you mind putting another log on the fire, honey?” Joel calls over to you, sliding the garlic bread into the top oven before Frankie places his tray of vegetables into the bottom oven with the chicken.
“Yep!” you respond, padding back into the living room to toss more firewood into the flames. With both of your men engrossed once again in dinner prep, you meander to the couch. You sink into the cushions, biting your lip while your mind turns over where your blossoming feelings for Frankie might lead all three of you.
You want to ask Frankie if he feels it too: that pull of your heart to his, the tug that goes beyond just physical chemistry. The ease with which he slots into your life, this life with Joel. Does he feel like a puzzle piece has surfaced, one that he didn’t even know he was missing until it snapped into place?
And Joel. He’s always so good at reading people, so he has to have clocked your emotions, even if you’ve been denying them yourself. He’s okay with you sleeping with other people, and clearly he doesn’t take issue with you being affectionate towards Frankie in front of him. Nonetheless, he didn’t sign up for his wife falling for another man. The guilt settles like a film over the effervescent happiness of the day thus far. Joel is the ultimate giver to those he loves… but are you pushing him past his boundaries?
After your delicious dinner in the dining room, the three of you migrate back to the cozy couch, each nursing a finger of the Japanese whiskey, the complex swirls of subtle fruit, vanilla, and toffee dancing across your tongues. The meandering conversation shifts back to your (tried and failed) attempts at the Santa Cruz carousel ring toss.
“See, baby, I told you that chuckin’ that ring won’t do you any good.”
You guffaw at your husband’s disapproval of your carousel ring toss strategy at the Santa Cruz boardwalk. “Oh, I’m outnumbered? You actually agree with Frankie on this one?”
“Yeah,” Joel shakes his head in disbelief. “I’m glad someone else finally had the sense to tell you that just throwin’ the ring at the hole won’t do you any good.”
“Maybe if you quit clowning around and aimed, you’d actually make it in,” Frankie quips, and he and Joel dissolve into laughter at the cheesy pun.
You roll your eyes. “Ugh, I’ve created a monster. I can’t believe you both are so fluent in dad jokes. Clearly I’ve made a mistake bringing the two of you together.”
Joel chuckles, chuffing your chin with his finger and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Pffft, good try. I’ve known you long enough to know you love the cheese.” You roll your eyes again but can’t help a smile from gracing your lips.
You sit with your back leaning against Joel’s side, cradled by his strong bicep wrapping around your front. His fingers caress your shoulder and arm absentmindedly while the conversation shifts to Joel’s latest woodworking projects. Your feet sit in Frankie’s lap, his long, thick fingers massaging out a knot in your calf, head nodding and eyes on Joel as he listens and asks questions. Frankie’s been wanting to get into a new hobby that uses his hands, so he was excited when you told him that Joel is a lifelong wood crafter.
Looking between Joel and Frankie, you can’t help but feel your body begin to buzz - and it’s only partially the whiskey talking. Here are your two favorite men in the world, finally together, both with you. It’s something you only allowed yourself to dream about in the dead of night, when Frankie had Isabella with him and Joel was wiped out from work.
When you’d lay in your LA rental alone, body writhing under the sheets, thighs parted and fingertips slick with your arousal; swirling away at your center while fantasizing about your husband and your boyfriend taking turns with you, or even sharing you simultaneously. You’d bit the pillow to stifle your moans on more than one occasion as you came, dripping onto the sheets. Always assuming it was nothing more than wishful thinking, that Joel wouldn’t be keen on sharing you in person, that Frankie wouldn’t want to fuck you in front of your husband. That the three of you would never end up spending time together.
But now, it’s real. And you can’t wait a second longer to finally live your dream.
You try to be subtle at first: slipping your feet further up Frankie’s legs, shifting your body to press your breasts out more invitingly, and slowly letting your hand slide down Joel’s thigh. But Joel, if nothing else, is keenly observant, and he clocks your intentions immediately.
His voice halts for a moment, and then a deep chuckle vibrates his chest. “Whatcha doin’ there, wanderin’ hands?” he teases you, grabbing your advancing hand gently.
You feign innocence. “Oh, I’m not doing anything,” you blink up at him with big eyes, playing the part. “Just happy to have you two here with me.”
Joel huffs and gives you a soft sideways smile, his dimple popping at your games. He brings your hand to his lips, kissing the knuckles sweetly. “Don’t you dare try to use the same tricks on me that you did 10 years ago. Naughty thing.”
His large hand shifts from your shoulder to your neck, clasping the breadth of it gently: not enough to restrict your blood flow, but enough to let you know he wants to call the shots tonight. Despite that, the action pulls a whine from your throat and makes you just as dizzy with need. Frankie swallows hard at the sight before him.
“Do you want us?” Joel asks.
“Yes, Joel,” you nearly whimper.
“Now tell me, sweetness,” Joel continues, leaning forward to murmur in your ear, “what d’ya want? Do you want us to take our time? Lay you out on the bed and take you apart piece by piece?” He presses a kiss to your jaw, sending shivers down your neck. “Or do you want us to ruin you right here, fuck you on these cushions until you’re screamin’ our names?”
The combination of absolute filth pouring from Joel’s mouth and his hand encasing your throat sets your body on fire and triggers slick to pool in your panties. You glance down at Frankie’s lap and see how hard he’s become in seconds. His pupils are blown, eyes obsidian pits of desire. There’s a part of you that wants them to take you immediately, but you know you want your first time with the two of them to be unhurried.
“Bedroom, Joel,” you breathe. “I want to make this last.”
Joel lets out a satisfied growl. “Good girl, telling us what you want. Do you want Frankie to kiss you?” Frankie’s breathing gets heavier as Joel releases his hand from you and nuzzles your cheek.
“Yes, god, please,” you whimper. Frankie places one of your feet on the ground carefully and spreads your legs so he can crawl on top of you, kneeling at the base of your thighs. After taking off his hat, he glances up and makes eye contact with Joel, who gives the slightest nod. It’s not lost on you how close the three of you are, breathing the same air, panting with need.
You pull Frankie to your lips, hands framing his face just as he cups the base of your skull with his palm. The moment your lips touch, both of you let out stifled moans, and you melt when you feel Joel’s arm wrap tighter around you. His big paw slides over your torso to cup your breast through your flannel - his flannel - and your tank top, thumb teasing your nipple into a hard peak.
You and Frankie continue to deepen the kiss, the arousal growing between all three of you. One of your hands glides over your husband’s meaty thigh to palm at his quickly-hardening cock. The other winds its way into your boyfriend’s silken curls, pulling lightly and eliciting a hiss from him.
He bites your lower lip and grabs your hip, grinding his length against your jeans-covered center. “Fuck, nenita,” he groans. All you can do is whine his name in response.
“Let’s take her upstairs,” Joel directs, sucking a quick hickey into your neck that makes you gasp. Frankie nods and wraps your legs around his waist while you continue to pepper kisses across his face and neck. Both men ascend the stairs towards the main bedroom with you in tow.
Once you step foot in the bedroom, Frankie sets you onto your feet and immediately starts kissing you again, licking into your mouth when you gasp. His hands slide down to cup your ass through your jeans. You open your eyes briefly to look for your husband, who’s leaned against the door frame, arms folded casually, as if this is just another Friday evening.
Frankie bites your lip, eliciting yet another gasp from your mouth, while Joel stalks towards the two of you. He slides behind you, grabbing Frankie’s hips to pull the both of you into him, and grinds his thick erection against the swell of your backside. Frankie jumps a bit, surprised, but groans lowly in his throat. Moaning, you reach your hand back blindly to guide Joel’s head towards your neck. He chuckles, knowing exactly what you want, and sucks another love mark into the soft skin there.
You feel intoxicated, on another planet, ceasing to exist in the bounds of time and space. Just floating, a vibrating being made only of raw desire for the two men surrounding you.
“Help me get her clothes off,” rasps Joel, and the two of them work in tandem to strip you of the offending garments. Four hands pull cloth away, stroke your hot, exposed skin, glide along your curves, making you sing the sweetest song of sighs, whines, and whimpers. You break your kiss with Frankie when he looks down to pop the button to your jeans, and turn your head to the side to pull your husband’s mouth to yours, noticing the infinitesimal difference between the taste of him and the way Frankie tastes. Joel growls into you, sliding his tongue along your teeth, and you swear your legs are going to turn to jelly. Joel’s leather & spice scent intertwines with Frankie’s rosemary and cedar aroma, combining into the perfect addictive cocktail.
All you can see, smell, taste, touch, feel, is them. Your men.
Once you’re stripped bare, you look between the two of them. “Please,” you beg, and the two men nod, starting to hastily shed their own clothing. You climb onto the bed, the olive washed-linen bedding soft against your heated body. Spreading your thighs, you slip your fingers around your drenched folds, body humming with need. A needy whine escapes your lips, and Joel looks up from dropping his jeans to his ankles.
“Uh-uh, darlin’,” he tuts. “I didn’t say you could touch yourself.” You withdraw your fingers but pout. Frankie smirks at your display of frustration while he whips his t-shirt off, baring his golden chest.
“Listen to Joel if you want to get your rewards,” Frankie reminds you. You part your thighs wider for him, hoping to entice him into breaking. He groans at the sight, his eyes becoming glassy. “You’re playing dirty,” he grouses.
Joel, now completely bare, looks over to see you laying your trap for Frankie. He shakes his head. “Naughty girls don’t get their sweet little cunts licked,” Joel singsongs at you.
He grabs you gently by the throat. “Listen very carefully if you want to come tonight.” You nod, your body flaring with desire at Joel’s dominance as you give him your full attention. “I’m going to sit against this headboard, and you are going to sit right between my legs, with your back to me. I’m going to spread your pretty thighs for Frankie and he’s going to eat you out until you come for us. Understood?”
You nod rapidly. “Words, sweetness,” Joel reminds you.
“Yes, Joel,” you barely manage to squeak out. Joel murmurs approvingly, and slides himself behind you. Bracketed on either side by his strong thighs, you’ve never felt more safe.
Once the both of you are settled in position, Joel leans towards you again. “What’s our safeword?”
“Persimmon,” you and Frankie say in unison.
Joel looks up at Frankie, slightly surprised, a devious smile curling his lips. “Such a good girl, explaining our rules to Frankie,” he purrs into your ear, and you preen at the praise. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice his gaze flick momentarily to Frankie’s naked body and hard cock bobbing proudly, and you feel his breath catch in his chest.
“If things are getting to be too much for either of you, we can slow down or stop,” he reminds both of you. With that, Joel grips your thighs with huge hands.
“Frankie,” Joel commands gently. “Come suck on her pretty little pearl.”
Frankie’s smirk deepens, and he slinks onto the foot of the bed, crawling on hands and knees towards the two of you. You drape each of your legs over Joel’s thighs, and he uses his hands to angle you open even further. Frankie’s eyes shift between your shining center and your flushed face as he lays himself between your thighs. You feel entirely exposed, on display.
Frankie licks his lips, and you let out an anticipatory whimper.
“You’re desperate to taste her, aren’t you?” Joel prompts Frankie. You see your boyfriend’s dark eyes meet your husband’s deep amber ones, so similar.
“Been thinking about it all day,” Frankie admits, slowly dragging his lips and tongue from the inside of your knee to the junction of your thigh. “Driving me crazy with those tight jeans of hers.” Shivers erupt across your skin, your breathing harsh from their teasing.
“Those are my favorite pair of her jeans,” Joel agrees. “They cup her ass so nicely.” Frankie hums, biting your thigh gently and then soothing the pinch with his tongue. You keen quietly and arch your back.
“Look at how wet she is for us,” Frankie notes with adoration, teasing the outside of your slick folds with the pads of his fingers, watching how your pussy clenches on nothing. He chuckles, then swipes his digits through your arousal and brings them to your lips.
“Taste yourself, nenita,” he husks, and you comply, sucking his fingertips into your mouth and swirling your tongue around them. Your own sweet tang coats your mouth. He groans, grinding into the mattress, and then Joel is grabbing your chin to kiss you. Your lips part with a sigh, and Joel massages your tongue with his own, tasting your flavor for himself. His chest vibrates against your back with his growl of satisfaction.
Frankie’s hands grip your thighs as he watches the exchange. “She always tastes so damn good,” he hums, kissing your cunt with a smack.
Joel parts from your lips and nods. “Sweetest pussy I’ve ever eaten.”
You squirm and moan, making Frankie chuckle again. “Is there something you want?”
“Does our girl need to come?” Joel croons, running his hands along the inside of your thighs.
Nodding your head rapidly, you beg, “Please, Frankie.” You see Frankie’s lip curl into a smirk, and then he licks a broad stripe up the length of your cunt. A high-pitched whine escapes your mouth as you throw your head back against Joel’s sturdy shoulder.
“That’s right, let Frankie know how good his mouth feels,” Joel coaxes you, and Frankie starts eating your pussy with vigor. He keeps his hands on your thighs, opening you wide for your boyfriend, who’s latched onto your swollen clit and is suckling it gently while he strokes your inner walls with two fingers.
“You’re making me feel so good, baby,” you gasp, looking between your legs at Frankie coaxing your body into pleasure. Joel’s hands briefly squeeze your thighs harder at your words. His cock presses thick and firm against your lower back, aroused at watching another man bringing you pleasure. One of your hands reaches back to grip Joel’s arm, while the other tangles in Frankie’s soft curls, keeping him locked onto your core. Finally being held by the both of them at the same time makes your head spin.
Your orgasm gathers in your bones, your breaths coming in pants as your legs start to shake. Joel slides his right hand from your thigh up your torso to your breast, flicking your nipple with his thumb until it pebbles, causing you to gasp.
“Fuck, Joel, I’m gonna come,” you moan to your husband, your boyfriend doubling down on your ministrations to your folds.
Suddenly, Joel booms, “Stop, Frankie.”
The younger man immediately parts from your center and looks at your husband, eyes flashing with surprise and another, more feral emotion. You whine loudly, your orgasm beginning to fade.
“Joel,” you beg, both a question and a plea. He smirks against your neck.
“Did you ever notice how when you deny her orgasm, her whole chest and neck flushes hot?” Joel asks Frankie, almost as if you aren’t there. Your cunt pulses, desperate.
“N-No, actually,” Frankie stammers slightly, pupils blown as he looks at your naked body, a shimmer of sweat coating your skin like dew. “I… never actually deny her an orgasm.” His eyes move back to Joel, desperation tinging the periphery. “I just want to make her come, over and over again.”
Your chest heaves, dizzy with need. Fuck, this is so debauched and hot.
Joel’s smirk deepens. “Ahh, how sweet, always giving our girl what she wants,” Joel purrs. “It’s a good thing you follow directions like a good boy.” You swear you hear a moan that Frankie barely swallows.
“Kiss her,” Joel orders Frankie, and Frankie audibly groans this time before he crawls up your body to capture your lips with passion, making you gasp. He licks into your mouth, claiming you with visceral, searing intent. You whimper against him; tasting yourself on his tongue drives you mad. As you and Frankie continue to feed off each other, Joel sucks hot, wet kisses against your throat. You keen and press yourself into Joel harder, grinding your ass against his throbbing cock. He growls a bit, thrusting his hips lightly.
“Joel, please,” you beg in between kisses with Frankie.
“Tell me what you need, darlin’,” your husband coos.
You pull away from Frankie and take a steadying breath. “I need… more. I want to be filled up.”
Joel groans at your words, biting down at the juncture of your shoulder and neck, making you whine. “Fuck, such a needy little thing aren’t you?”
An impatient whine escapes your lips, and this time it’s Frankie chuckling. “Tired of my mouth on you, baby?”
“Never, Frankie,” you rasp. “I could never get enough of you.” Frankie kisses you deeply again; your fingers intertwine with his curly locks as your heart flutters. Breaking the kiss, you admit, “I want to feel both of you at the same time.”
He fucking whimpers at your request. Joel smiles wickedly into your shoulder.
“Well go on, then, sweetheart,” Joel rumbles. You lift your hips just enough for Joel to line himself up and sink into you. Both of you moan simultaneously as he fits himself snugly inside of your pussy. Pleasure sings in your veins, making you arch your back when he bottoms out.
Joel licks a line from the base of your neck upwards. “Feel better?” he murmurs into the shell of your ear, biting your earlobe. You gasp wordlessly, your core clenching on his thick length, making him groan in response. “Fuck… I’d say that’s a yes.”
Frankie sits back on his heels, taking in the sinful sight before him: Joel’s thick thighs holding you up; your soft legs spread open for him; pussy split open lewdly on Joel’s cock; your slick and cream gleaming at his base. His dick jumps, his eyes trained on where the two of you are joined.
In a potent haze of arousal, you start to grind on Joel, seeking any ounce of friction to quell the fire in your core, but he seizes your hips with his large paws, halting any movement. You cry out in confusion and need.
Joel snickers, amused. “Not so fast. I didn’t tell ya to move, did I?” You close your eyes in sweet frustration, your head tipping back against Joel’s broad shoulders as you shake your head.
“I’m gonna give you what you need, sweetness,” your husband promises you, then turns to Frankie.
“Francisco,” Joel commands. Your boyfriend snaps his head from looking between your legs to staring right into Joel’s eyes. His breathing picks up, a weighted thrill cascading down his spine from hearing his full name straight from Joel’s lips.
“Give our girl what she wants. Suck on her clit until she comes. And if she moves, don’t you dare give her your mouth. Understood?”
Frankie nods, his lips parted and soulful brown eyes full of desire. I’m so fucked, you realize in that moment.
Your boyfriend lays between your and Joel’s legs once again, subtly grinding into the mattress. He locks eyes with you, hovering over your throbbing clit, and blows cool air across it, making you twitch desperately as you will yourself to stay still, your velvet walls squeezing around Joel.
“Good girl,” your husband growls gently, kneading your hips reassuringly. Frankie props himself up on his elbows, then brings his thumb to your clit, gently pulling back on the hood to fully expose it. Swollen, flushed with heat, and shining with your arousal, Frankie can’t get enough of the sight.
“So beautiful, querida,” Frankie whispers reverently, then his mouth closes around your bud and sucks.
Restricted in your movements and trying to follow Joel’s directions, the flare of pleasure you experience is released by your body as a long, low moan. Frankie groans at your taste and sounds, his tongue swirling over your pearl in a precise pattern, and with the exquisite stretch of Joel’s cock against your walls, your nerves feel like they’re on fire. Your orgasm once again begins to build, slick slowly drenching Joel, his length swelling harder inside of you with every minute that passes.
“Frankie,” you beg, “I want to come so badly. You’re making me feel so good.” His eyes flash to yours.
It’s like a switch flips in Frankie, and suddenly, your sweet boyfriend turns into a menace.
“Aww, pobrecita,” Frankie mocks lovingly, pressing a kiss to your clit. “A fat cock filling you up and my tongue playing with your little clit isn’t enough for you? So demanding for someone who has to be allowed to come.”
You gasp at Frankie’s words, not used to him being such a tease, but Joel’s dark laugh only eggs him on. Determined to pull out all the stops, Frankie flattens his tongue and traces the length of one side of your pussy, accidentally brushing right against Joel’s shaft in the process.
Your husband lets out a surprised moan and his cock throbs. His reaction doesn’t go unnoticed by your boyfriend.
“Joel?” Frankie asks, eyes wide, a dozen questions conveyed in a single look.
You turn to Joel, conflicting emotions flickering across his face: yearning, confusion, vulnerability; but glazed over it all is a powerful desire. Joel’s never shown interest in other men, you remember. You and Frankie hold your breath.
One of Joel’s calloused hands tentatively moves from your thigh to tangle in Frankie’s hair, cupping his skull. You feel Frankie’s shoulders shudder. The two men’s eyes lock.
Joel gives Frankie a small nod.
You feel the relief and excitement wash over Frankie’s figure in waves. “The safeword applies for you, too,” Frankie reminds Joel gently, and Joel nods again. The three of you breathe for a moment, on the verge of exploring uncharted territory.
And then, Francisco Morales begins to simultaneously, single-handedly, take you and Joel apart.
Frankie slides both arms under your and Joel’s legs, his hands coming up to grip the sides of Joel’s thighs from beneath to anchor him to the both of you. Joel’s cock twitches inside of you the second Frankie’s fingers brush his skin. He looks down at Frankie, his lips parted in awe, eyes dark with desire. Frankie holds Joel’s gaze as he gently licks the base of Joel’s shaft.
Soft moans crawl their way out of your husband’s throat, his grip on your thigh tightening even more as his other hand explores Frankie’s curls. Frankie laps at it again, this time dragging his tongue further up and onto your pussy lips, swirling around your clit again. You and Joel both moan sequentially, the sweetest sounds that Frankie’s ever heard in his life. His senses are flooded with your and Joel’s essences.
He continues licking Joel’s cock and your pussy, and slowly, your husband’s resolve begins to crumble. The wet, sloppy kisses Frankie laps across the two of you leave Joel panting for more, and he struggles to remain still inside of you. Meanwhile, your head is reeling - your boyfriend is licking your husband’s dick, and he’s enjoying it. Never in your wildest dreams did you imagine this happening – and now, you can’t see, hear, feel anything but that.
“Frankie,” you whine, “please let me move.”
He peeks his head up from between your legs, where he’s been dutifully preoccupied. His lips shine with your arousal, and when he parts from your body, Joel groans in protest as well. Frankie smiles smugly, looking up at the two of you. “Do you think she deserves to come?” he asks your husband.
Joel’s chest heaves against your back. “Yes,” he grits out, his voice sounding raw. “She’s been so good for us.”
Frankie looks at you diabolically, his smile nearly predatory. “Look at that, nenita. Guess Joel is gonna reward you after all.”
Joel slides his hands from your thigh and Frankie’s head up your torso to cup your breasts gently, squeezing the heft of them and working his thumbs over your nipples. You keen, and he pulls your hair to the side to brush his lips over your neck. Shivers erupt across your skin.
“Go on, darlin’,” Joel encourages. “Let Frankie see how well you ride my cock.”
You groan in relief, and shift your legs to plant your shins against the bed. Rising up, you keep your eyes on Frankie while you slip Joel’s cock almost all the way out, and then swirl your hips as you slowly sink back down. Both men moan in unison; Joel closing his eyes and throwing his head back against the headboard, and Frankie with his gaze flitting between your face and the show between your legs.
“You look so good stuffed with Joel,” Frankie purrs, his face inches from where your most intimate parts slide together. You seat yourself further onto Joel. His fat tip kisses your cervix, teasing the nerve endings there, then he slips into just the right corner deep in you that only he and Frankie have ever found. Your loud gasp tells the men everything they need to know.
“Right there?” Joel asks rhetorically when you start to rock against it, your breath speeding up. You nod your head rapidly, mewling with pleasure. He thrusts up, meeting you with each movement.
Frankie takes that as his cue to latch back onto your puffy clit, and a hoarse whine rips from your throat. He moans in response. The vibrations from his voice pull you closer to your peak, your hips working against both Joel’s cock and Frankie’s mouth.
Moans, gasps, and whimpers fill the air. A thick fog of hedonistic energy crackles between the three of you. Every cell of your body is vibrating with pleasure. Your hand finds Joel’s own, tangled in Frankie’s hair, and your fingers intertwine, fully under the spell of the man bringing the both of you to the brink. Beneath you, you feel Joel’s thighs begin to shake, his thrusting becoming erratic. He’s right at the cusp of his orgasm.
“Frankie,” Joel groans, “Make our girl come.”
Frankie doesn’t need anything else. He swirls tiny, precise, fast circles against your throbbing pearl with his tongue, and between Joel’s cock and Frankie’s mouth, you shatter.
Spasms wrack your pussy as you squeal your two lovers’ names in succession, and both men curse. Below your thighs, you feel Frankie’s hand move to cup and massage Joel’s heavy sack, then he’s licking at Joel’s length desperately.
“Come for us, Joel,” Frankie begs. You swear you feel Joel stop breathing.
In the wake of the moment of stillness, Joel’s cock erupts inside you, his hot seed painting your cunt. A strangled cry shoots from his lips, and his hand crushes against Frankie’s skull and your fingers. His entire body shakes, and you don’t know if you’ve ever felt your husband fall apart so thoroughly.
Frankie, drunk on your dual orgasms, laps ferociously between your thighs, drinking up the combined nectar of your and Joel’s cum. The minute the both of you begin to relax, Frankie surges up, kissing you deeply. He feeds your and Joel’s essence to you with his tongue.
You’re in an absolute haze of ecstasy.
“Please, sweetness, I need to fuck you,” Frankie pleads, his body shivering with need. You lean forward, sliding off Joel’s cock, and let Frankie shift you until you’re perpendicular to your husband, draped across the middle of the bed on your back. Your boyfriend gets off of the mattress and stalks to the side where your feet lay, then pulls you towards him by your ankles until your hips are nearly dangling off the edge. His hard cock bobs angrily, the tip glistening with precum.
“Let me see you,” he whispers, spreading your thighs open. Your pussy is obscenely glazed with Joel’s cum, his milky spend clinging to every fold and curve between your legs. Frankie lets out a pained moan, and your breath hitches in response.
“Goddamn,” Frankie murmurs devotedly. “You’re a goddess.” He guides his cockhead through your silky folds, both of you moaning at the slipperiness. Your head lolls to the side. Joel watches you with tired but desirous eyes, clearly enjoying Frankie taking his turn. His softened cock lays across his thick thigh, the last of his cum dripping from the tip.
“Frankie, please,” you whine, spreading yourself even wider, your cunt fluttering in anticipation. Frankie groans, then shifts forward, spearing his hardness into you in one long thrust.
The sensation makes you keen, your back bowing off the bed sheets. Frankie secures your parted thighs with a large hand clamping down on each, and he moans unabashedly at the sight of his cock spreading your walls, some of Joel’s cum seeping out. Sinfully slick heat envelops his length, and it takes everything in him not to come on the spot.
“You’re still so tight, amorcita,” Frankie grits out, “still taking me so well.” He pistons in and out of your wrecked pussy, his thickness slicked up in your and Joel’s releases. Wet squelches from your pussy float through the air, dancing around your whines and Frankie’s grunts of pleasure.
It’s sensorially obscene in the most delicious way.
Waves of bliss wash across your body as Frankie drives you further towards your second orgasm. Sweat shines across his strong body; it clings like dewdrops to his forehead, his dark curls sticking to his skin here and there. You grasp his forearms, trying to tether yourself to reality while he kisses that devastating spot within you with his cock. Unable to resist, you snake your fingers down towards your clit, starting to swirl and press exactly how you like it. A whine breaks free from his lips when he feels you start to tighten around him.
“Nenita,” Frankie cries out, his cock swelling even harder. “You feel so damn good.” He pauses to catch his breath for a moment, then gently moves your hands to your thighs, keeping them spread for him as he swipes his thumb over your throbbing pearl. Your moan hitches in rapturous pleasure. With Frankie fully in control of your body, you surrender to his ministrations, eyes sweeping across the sight of him driving himself deep inside you.
The bed shifts beside you, and you feel Joel pressing kisses over your heated skin. “You look so beautiful taking Frankie’s cock,” he murmurs. Your mind buzzes with warmth at his husky baritone, his lips leaving tingling trails in their wake across your forehead and neck. His calloused fingertips trace circles around your pebbled nipples, pinching and soothing repeatedly to enhance your pleasure.
Looking up at your husband, you whisper, “Kiss me.” Joel obliges, kissing you deeply, sliding his tongue along yours, your lips and tongues dancing as Frankie continues to cause your orgasm to rise further in your limbs with every thrust.
It’s even more perfect than you could have imagined.
Frankie moves your legs to rest upright along his torso, ankles on his shoulders, and the new angle has you breaking your kiss with Joel with a high-pitched whine. “Oh fuck, Francisco, right there,” you practically sob. Frankie leans his body into you a bit more, burying himself to the hilt each time, and Joel reaches over to rub your clit.
Having both men focused on bringing you to climax is a heady potion. Your thighs start to shake and every breath turns into a reedy cry. “Joel… Francisco… fuck!” you moan, tightening around Frankie’s girth, his thrusts beginning to speed up as he approaches his own orgasm. “You’re gonna make me come!”
“Then come for us, sweetheart,” Joel husks, and it’s enough to have you clamping down on Frankie’s cock, finally shattering with a scream.
Your cunt floods with slick, and when he withdraws slightly, you gush, splashing Joel’s hand, your thighs, Frankie’s cock and belly, and the bed. Frankie grits out a loud moan as he slams home, each thrust making you gush more, until he reaches his peak. He whimpers your name loudly as he buries himself a final time and unloads his spend into your pussy, his cum mixing with Joel’s inside of you, filling you to the brim. As your twin releases wane, Frankie carefully pulls out, collapsing at the end of the bed beside you, the both of you breathing hard.
“Good girl, darlin’,” soothes Joel, kissing your neck. Tears from the intensity of your peak roll down your hot cheeks. Your senses are pleasurably muted, brain fuzzy in the afterglow. Frankie rolls towards you at the same time Joel slots himself right next to you. Laying a hand on each of their bodies, you try to ground yourself as you come back to Earth. The thick musk of sex permeates the air; all three of you breathe heavily, blanketed with endorphins. Frankie and Joel both affectionately stroke your body, their touches soothing instead of arousing. You take turns kissing each man; your mouths move slowly against each other, soaking in the intimacy.
You knew your first time together would be hot, but you didn’t predict it would feel damn near magical.
After a few minutes, Joel sits up, stretching. “Why don’t you two get cleaned up in the shower, and I’ll change the sheets?” You nod, and he presses a tender kiss to your forehead, then gives Frankie’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze. The two men hold each other’s gazes for a moment, fondness and shyness battling in their eyes, then Frankie pats your thigh.
“C’mon, bebita, let’s get you clean,” Frankie encourages you, swinging his legs off the bed and standing up. He offers his hand to you and you accept the help, wiggling almost bonelessly off of the bed. Giggles bubble up your throat when you have to stem the warm flow of their seed from between your thighs with your fingers. Joel smacks your ass gently as you pass, eliciting more of your laughter as you and Frankie enter the bathroom.
You watch your boyfriend set up the dual-head shower, perching yourself on the marble countertop across the room. Your hand is still pressed to your center, but when Frankie’s done adjusting the water temperature, he spins around, getting to his knees in front of your spread thighs.
“Let me see,” he asks softly. You remove your fingers, letting the mixture of their warm cum seep from you like honeyed nectar. Frankie hums approvingly, then delicately laps at your folds and inner thighs to clean you up with his mouth. You run your dry hand through his curls, sighing happily, licking the taste of the three of you off the fingers of your other hand. Frankie looks up, and instantly captures your lips with his, radiantly smiling against your mouth.
The bliss, the peace, the happiness… you feel three little words rising in your throat. And you don’t know how much longer you can hold them off.
Or, at this point, if you even want to.
Have thoughts/thots, feelings, SCREAMS, asks? My inbox is open! 💌
Tag list: @mountainsandmayhem @alltheirdamn @sin-djarin @nerdieforpedro @almostfoxglove
The Weight of Being Seen | Marie Philip Poulin x Laura Stacey | Part 2
Summary: The "untraditional" dynamic of your relationship has you feeling trapped in the world of isolation, no matter how much your partners try to keep those feelings at bay.
Word Count: 16.5k
Warnings: no use of Y/N
A/N: Hello everyone! Happy last day of Pride! I hope you all have enjoyed this month as much as I have. This is the *big* final for this month! This family series is not over. I have big ideas for what is to come, but if you have any ideas, please share! Also, for any request please send them my way I would love to write more for WOHO and honestly any of the fandoms I am deeply ingrained in!
Masterlist
Your phone starts buzzing before the coffee is done. At first, you ignore it. It’s just past eight in the morning, and the house still has that soft, early-day quiet you love. The kitchen smells like coffee and toast. The sun comes through the window over the sink, catching on the little row of plants you keep forgetting to water but somehow haven’t managed to kill. Arlo is stretched across the cool tile in front of the back door, golden fur lit up where the sun touches him, one ear flipped inside out in a way that makes him look both majestic and ridiculous. Pou is at the stove, scrambling eggs with the intense focus of someone treating breakfast like a competitive event. Laura is sitting at the kitchen island in an oversized sweatshirt, one hand wrapped around her mug, the other scrolling idly through her phone. It has been a week since the picnic.
Long enough that the sharpest parts of that day have softened at the edges. Long enough that you can think about Allie’s camera without your stomach clenching immediately. Long enough that the photo she privately sent to Laura sits in your group chat like a small, strange miracle. You have looked at it more than you expected. Not constantly. Not obsessively. Just sometimes, when the house is quiet, and nobody is asking anything of you. In the picture, the three of you are on the blanket beneath the tree. Laura is leaning back on her palms, laughing. Pou is turned slightly toward you, her smile wide and unguarded. You are caught between them, head tilted, mouth open mid-laugh. It’s not an obvious photo. Not to everyone. But it’s obvious to you.
You can see the love in the spacing. In how your bodies angle toward each other. In how Pou’s hand rests near your arm, close enough to remember that it wanted to touch you. In how Laura’s knee is turned toward yours. In how the three of you look like a sentence no one else has learned how to read yet. A private photo. A photo Allie had promised wouldn’t go anywhere without your approval. Your phone buzzes again. Then Laura’s does. Then Pou’s. Arlo lifts his head from the tile, alerted by the chorus of vibrations. His eyes move from you to Laura to Pou, as if trying to decide which of his humans requires intervention first.
“Popular family this morning,” Laura says lightly.
Pou glances over her shoulder. “If that’s my Team Canada group chat arguing about the equipment schedule again, I’m leaving the country.”
You smile faintly and reach for your phone, expecting a text from one of your friends or maybe a reminder from your office software. Instead, there are fourteen Instagram notifications. Your stomach drops before you even understand why. You keep your account private. You barely post. You’re not the sort of person who wakes up to Instagram notifications, especially not in batches. Another one appears while you are staring at the lock screen. Then another. Your thumb feels clumsy when you unlock your phone.
The first notification reads:
teamcanada tagged you in a post. For a second, you don’t breathe. The kitchen goes strangely quiet around you. The eggs continue to hiss in the pan. The coffee maker lets out one final gurgle. Arlo’s tags jingle softly as he gets up from the floor. You open Instagram. The post loads slowly, which feels cruel. A bright carousel from Team Canada’s official account fills your screen, all rainbow graphics and clean branding and polished joy.
The caption reads:
Celebrating love, pride, and community with our Team Canada family. Happy Pride Month! 🏳️🌈❤️ The first photo is Sarah and Brianne laughing near the badminton net. The second is a wide shot of the pavilion, rainbow banners bright against the trees. The third is Natalie holding Rory, his tiny rainbow onesie wrinkled where his fist has grabbed at the fabric. The fourth is Brianne with her wife and kids, all five of them crowded together, laughing. You swipe again. Your hand goes cold. It’s the photo. Your photo. The three of you on the blanket, caught in the late afternoon light. You’re laughing, your head turned toward Pou. Laura is leaning into your space, close enough that her shoulder almost touches yours. Pou’s hand is nearly on your arm. The image is beautiful. It’s tender. It’s also completely unmistakable.
Your private life, the thing the three of you spent nine years shaping around caution and silence and careful almosts, is sitting on Team Canada’s official Instagram account. Tagged. Captioned. Public. Your phone buzzes in your hand again. A comment notification. Then another. Then another. Across the kitchen, Laura goes still. You look up and realize she is staring at her own phone. Pou turns away from the stove.
“What?” Laura doesn’t answer right away. Pou looks from Laura to you. Her expression changes instantly. She turns off the burner and moves the pan off the heat. “What happened?” You try to speak, but the words catch. Laura’s voice comes out thin.
“Team posted the picnic carousel.”
Pou frowns. “Okay?” You lift your phone and turn the screen toward her. Pou looks. For one second, her face is blank. Then her jaw tightens. “Oh,” she says.
The word is small. Not enough. Not nearly enough. You look back down at your phone. You can see the likes climbing. Hundreds already. Then more. People are commenting faster than you can read. Your chest feels like someone has reached inside it and tightened a fist around your lungs. “They posted it,” you say.
Laura stands slowly. “They weren’t supposed to.” Pou’s phone starts buzzing on the counter. She ignores it. You swipe down to the comments. Your vision sharpens in the awful way it does when panic turns everything too clear.
puckprincess88: Wait are Pou and Laura in a throuple?? Did I miss a chapter??
queercreasekid: I’m actually crying. I’ve never seen poly love represented in hockey before. This means so much.
hockeyheart_17: Pou and Laura are so cute but who’s the third person?
rainbowrinkrat: The way the three of them are looking at each other. That’s love. Full stop.
canadahockeymom: Is she their friend or partner? I’m confused.
sticktap_sam: Love in all forms 🏳️🌈❤️ This is what Pride is about.
neutralzone_nora: I hope this was posted with everyone’s consent. It feels like a pretty private moment.
The word consent makes your stomach twist. You keep scrolling even though you know you should stop.
rinkside_rachel: Not trying to be rude but Pou and Laura are married, right? So is this person dating both of them or just one?
goaliegirl1998: This is beautiful but I also feel like we’re missing context.
mapleleaf_maddie: I love Pou and Laura so much. Happy for them and their friend!
Their friend. Your thumb freezes. Your phone buzzes again.
blueline_bri: Wait. Is the third person a surrogate or something? The caption says family, and now I’m curious.
The room tilts slightly. “What?” Laura asks immediately. You must have made a sound. Something small. Something you didn’t mean to let out. You shake your head and keep scrolling, because apparently your brain has decided the best response to pain is more pain.
pucktalkdaily: I don’t get the dynamic but they look happy, I guess.
sapphic_stick: If they’re poly, that’s amazing. If she’s just a friend, this is still cute. Either way, happy Pride.
northstar_nate: This feels like an accidental hard launch.
creasecrush: Okay but if they’ve been together a while, why has nobody seen her before?
hockeyandhope: As someone in a three-parent family, this made me feel less alone today. Thank you.
rinkrumors_ca: Calling it now, she’s probably helping them have a baby. Friend surrogate situation maybe?
Your entire body goes cold. Friend surrogate. Two words. Two simple, careless words from a stranger who knows nothing about you, nothing about your life, nothing about the conversation you had on the blanket a week ago while the sun went down and your voice shook around the word mom. You lock your phone so quickly your thumb slips on the screen.
Pou steps closer. “What did you see?”
“Nothing.”
Laura’s eyes narrow with concern. “That wasn’t nothing.”
“I said nothing.”
Your voice is too sharp. Arlo moves immediately, crossing the kitchen to press his body against your thigh. He leans his full weight into you, solid and warm and uncomplicated. You put your hand on his head automatically. Pou’s phone buzzes again. Then Laura’s. Then yours. A new sound joins the others, Pou’s ringtone. She looks at the screen. “Comms,” she says under her breath. Laura’s phone starts ringing a second later. The kitchen fills with sound. Your phone lights up again with a text from Allie.
Allie: I am so sorry. I marked that image private. I’m calling comms now. That should not have gone out.
Your throat tightens. So it wasn’t Allie. It wasn’t the person who looked you in the eye and promised she would check. It was Team Canada. A system. A folder. A social media schedule. A polished Pride caption. A morning post built from photos someone didn’t understand weren’t theirs to use. Pou answers her phone and turns away slightly. “Yeah. I saw it.” Laura answers hers too, stepping toward the living room. “No, this wasn’t approved.”
You stand in the middle of the kitchen with Arlo pressed against you while both of your partners talk to people about the thing that has happened to all of you and somehow feels like it happened most violently to you. Pou’s voice is low and clipped. Laura’s is controlled in that way that tells you she’s furious. You should feel relieved. Instead, you feel outside of it again. They are handling it. Talking to the team. Using the voices they use when the world expects them to be composed and professional. They are upset, clearly upset, but they are moving. Acting. Responding. You are standing barefoot in your kitchen with your hand buried in your dog’s fur, trying not to throw up. Your phone buzzes again.
Jenna: Um. Babe. Are you awake? Because I just saw something and I have approximately nine million questions. Then another.
Sarah: Please tell me Team Canada did not just hard launch your entire personal life without warning. Then another.
Mom: Honey, your aunt just sent me a post. Can you call me? Then another.
Marcus: Hey. I don’t know if you’ve seen the Team Canada post yet, but it’s making its way around. I’m at the office. You need to call me when you can.
Marcus. Your coworker. Another therapist in the group practice. One of the few people at work who knows enough about your life to know Arlo’s name, but not enough to know why you leave early sometimes when Pou has late travel or Laura has a rare night off. Your stomach drops again. Because the internet is one thing. The office is another. Your professional life is not built like Pou and Laura’s. They are public figures. Their careers are shaped around cameras, interviews, speculation, fans thinking they are entitled to little pieces of them. You have spent years building the opposite. A practice shaped around privacy. Boundaries. Trust. The careful distance that lets clients feel safe without knowing too much about you. And now your face is in a viral Team Canada Pride post, pressed between two married hockey players, while strangers ask whether you are a partner, a friend, or a surrogate.
You crouch down before your knees can give out and wrap both arms around Arlo’s neck. He immediately shifts closer, pressing his chest against yours, his tail thumping once against the cabinet. He smells like grass and dog shampoo and the peanut butter treats Laura gave him the night before. His fur is warm beneath your cheek. “Good boy,” you whisper, though your voice barely works.
Arlo rests his chin over your shoulder like he knows exactly what he is doing. Maybe he does. For a few seconds, you let yourself bury your face in his fur and breathe. The world can misunderstand you. Instagram can dissect you. Team Canada can post your private life under a caption about love and community like consent is a minor detail. Coworkers can see. Clients might see. Parents of clients might see. Former supervisors might see and wonder what else about you has been private. Arlo does not care. Arlo knows you are his person. He knows Pou is his person and Laura is his person and you are all home. He knows the sound of your keys, the exact cabinet where his treats live, the corner of the couch where he is not allowed to sleep and absolutely sleeps anyway. He knows love as routine and scent and presence. No labels. No comments. No questions. Just the weight of him leaning into you as if he can hold you in place by sheer devotion.
From the living room, Laura says, “Then archive it while we decide.” Pou says, “No, not later. Now.” Your head lifts. Archive it. The words should bring relief. They do, for half a second. Then your stomach twists again. Because a part of you, the part you don't want to admit to, thinks about queercreasekid. Thinks about hockeyandhope. Thinks about the people who saw the photo and felt less alone before the wrongness of how it got posted swallowed everything. You don’t want it up. You don’t want it gone. You want a third option where it was never taken from you in the first place.
By eight thirty, the post is archived. The notifications slow, but they don’t stop. Screenshots already exist. The carousel has been reposted to fan accounts, quote tweeted on X, uploaded to TikTok with zoomed-in music edits. People have already started arguing about whether Team Canada “accidentally outed” someone or whether “public event means public photo.” Pou stands at the kitchen island with both hands braced on the counter, staring at her phone. Laura is pacing near the living room, one hand pressed to her forehead. You are still on the floor with Arlo. No one has eaten breakfast. The eggs are cold. Finally, Pou looks at you. “They archived it.”
“I heard.”
“They’re drafting an apology.” You nod.
Laura stops pacing. “They want to know whether we want the apology to say anything specific.”
“We?” you ask. Laura’s face tightens. “All three of us.” You look at her, then at Pou. “Do they know that?”
Pou exhales slowly. “They know enough.”
“Enough,” you repeat. Neither of them answers. Your phone buzzes again in your hand. Marcus.
Marcus: Are you okay? I’m asking as your coworker and your friend. Also, a practical thing. The receptionist just got a call from someone asking if you’re “the therapist from the Team Canada post.” We didn’t confirm anything. I told everyone not to discuss your personal life. But you need to know.
Your mouth goes dry. Another message comes through before you can answer.
Marcus: I also moved your first two appointments to telehealth and told them there was an urgent scheduling issue. I didn’t give details. We can cancel the rest of your day if you need that. You don’t have to be professional through this before you’ve had coffee.
The kindness of it almost makes you crack. You set your phone face down on the floor. Laura notices. “Who is it?”
“Marcus.”
Pou looks over. “Work Marcus?” You nod.
“What did he say?” Laura asks. You stand because staying on the floor suddenly makes you feel too small. Arlo stands with you, leaning against your leg like he’s taking your side in a fight he doesn’t understand.
“Someone called the office asking if I’m the therapist from the post.”
Pou’s eyes close briefly. “Shit.”
Laura goes still. “Oh, sweetheart.”
“No.” You hold up a hand. “Don’t sweetheart me right now.”
Laura’s face changes, hurt flickering before she tucks it away. You hate that you caused that hurt. You hate more that you don't have room to soften it. Pou’s phone lights up on the counter. Messages from Pou and Laura’s teammates keep coming in. You can see the names flashing before the screen goes dark again. Nursey. Jenner. Natalie. Rebecca. Jamie. Pou and Laura’s team knows. Not gradually. Not because the three of you sat down with them and chose honesty. Not because you decided who you trusted and how much they could hold. They know because a social media manager posted a carousel at eight in the morning. Pou unlocks her phone. Her face shifts as she reads.
“What?” you ask. Pou hesitates. “Read it.” She looks at Laura. You feel your chest tighten instantly. “Don’t do that.”
Pou looks back at you. “Do what?”
“Check with each other before deciding what I can hear.” Pou goes still. Laura’s mouth presses together. You are already raw, and that tiny exchange scrapes across every open nerve. Pou nods once, accepting the correction.
“Okay. You’re right.” She reads from her phone. “Sarah said, ‘Are you three okay? The group chat is losing it. Nobody knew. I’m sorry if that makes this worse.’" Laura looks down at her own phone. “Brianne said, ‘I just saw. Was this approved? Please tell me it was approved.’” Pou keeps reading. “Natalie said, ‘Oh my god. I called her your friend at the picnic. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I’m really sorry.’” Your stomach twists. Laura reads another. “Rebecca said, ‘I’m here if any of you need anything. Also, for what it’s worth, nobody in the team chat Pou and I are in is judging. People are shocked, but not judging.’”
Pou swallows. “Jamie said, ‘I asked how she knew you at badminton. I feel awful. I’m sorry if I put her on the spot.’” You look away. Laura’s phone buzzes again. She reads silently.
You laugh once, humorless. “You’re doing it again.”
Laura looks up. “Sorry.” She glances at the screen. “It’s Melodie. She said, ‘This should not have gone up without checking. That’s on comms, not you. But also, are we allowed to ask what’s true and what isn’t? Because everyone likes her. We’re just confused.’” Everyone likes her. We’re just confused. You press your fingertips against your forehead.
Pou’s voice is careful. “They’re trying to understand.”
“I know.”
“They’re not mad.” You look up at that. Something in your expression must warn her, because she stops.
“They’re not mad,” you repeat. Pou looks uncertain.
“I just mean…”
“I know what you mean.”
Laura takes a step toward you. “Hey.” You step back. That stops both of them. It stops you too. You don't usually move away from them. Not like that. Not with your whole body deciding before your heart can soften the gesture. Arlo moves with you.
“You both keep telling me the good version,” you say. Laura’s face changes.
“What?”
“You’re doing it again.” Your voice is calm, which somehow makes it worse. “They’re not mad. They’re trying to be kind. The comments are mostly positive. Representation matters. The post is archived. The apology is coming.” Pou’s mouth opens, then closes.
“All of that might be true,” you continue. “But Team Canada posted a private photo without approval. Your teammates found out because of Instagram. My mother found out because my aunt sent her a screenshot. Strangers are already asking if I’m a surrogate. Someone called my office. My coworker is moving my appointments because people are looking for me. And you two are standing there telling me no one is mad.”
Laura looks wounded. “That’s not what we meant.”
“It’s what you’re doing.”
Pou’s posture stiffens. “We’re trying to keep you from spiraling.”
You laugh once, sharp and humorless. “Do you hear how that sounds?”
Pou’s face shifts, regret flashing immediately. “I didn’t mean…”
“No, but you said it.” Your hands are shaking now, and Arlo presses harder against your leg. “You’re trying to keep me from spiraling. You’re trying to manage me. Both of you. Like I’m the problem in the room instead of the person this happened to.” Laura steps closer, then stops herself.
“It happened to all of us.”
“I know that,” you say, voice rising for the first time. “I know it happened to all of us. But it didn't happen to all of us the same way.”
Silence. Pou looks down. Laura goes still. You can feel yourself shaking, but you can't stop now. The hurt is too close to the surface, and every calm, careful sentence from them feels like hands pushing you back under water.
“You two have each other publicly,” you say. “You have the rings. The marriage. The years of people understanding you as a couple. So when they see that photo, they see Pou and Laura plus a question mark. You are not the question mark. I am.” Laura’s eyes shine, but she doesn't cry.
“You’re not a question mark to us,” Pou says.
“But I am to everyone else.” You point toward the phones on the counter. “And now everyone else includes your teammates, Team Canada staff, the fans, my family, my friends, my colleagues, my clients, maybe. Parents of clients who already worry that affirming therapy means I’m pushing something on their kid. People who have no context except a photo and a caption and comments asking if I’m a partner or a friend or a surrogate.” Pou flinches at the word. Good. You want it to hurt. Not because you want to punish her, but because you can't keep being the only one pierced by it.
Laura’s voice is quiet. “Who said that?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.” You unlock your phone with trembling fingers and find the screenshot you took without realizing you had taken it. You turn the screen toward them.
rinkrumors_ca: Calling it now, she’s probably helping them have a baby. Friend surrogate situation maybe?
Laura’s face goes pale. Pou stares at the comment for a long second, then looks away. You lower the phone. “That's what I was afraid of.” Neither of them speaks. “That's what I told you at the picnic. That if we stay private, if people see you as the couple and me as the friend, then pregnancy turns me into something else in their minds. Not a mother. Not a partner. A favor. A body. A friend helping you build your family.”
Laura puts a hand over her mouth, then drops it. “I’m sorry.”
“I know you are.” Your voice drops. “But I need you both to stop talking to me like the damage is smaller because some people are being nice.” Pou looks at you fully now. Her face is tight with stress, guilt, fear, and something else you recognize because you feel it too. Helplessness. “We’re scared too,” she says. “I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do,” Pou says, not harshly, but with a steadiness that asks you to stay with her. “My phone has not stopped. The Team Canada group chat, comms, my agent, people I haven’t talked to in years. Everyone wants to know what to say, what not to say, whether I’m okay, whether Laura’s okay, whether you’re okay. I don’t know what to tell them because I don’t know what you want me to say, and I don’t know what I’m ready to say, and I’m terrified that any answer I give will hurt you.”
Laura nods, arms wrapped around herself. “I’m getting messages from people on the team and from family. My sister texted me a screenshot with question marks. Someone from media asked if Pou and I would make a joint statement. Not all three of us. Pou and me.” Your chest tightens. Laura looks at you. “I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Because I knew if I said yes, it would erase you, and if I said no, they’d ask why. And if I said all three of us, then suddenly I’d be confirming something you didn’t get to choose to share today.”
Pou’s voice is rougher now. “We’re not calm because we’re fine. We’re calm because if we fall apart, we’re afraid you’ll have to carry that too.”
The room goes quiet. That lands. It doesn't fix the hurt, but it changes its shape. For the first time all morning, you see them not as a wall in front of you, but as two people standing in the same storm and trying, badly, to hold the roof up with their hands. Your anger doesn't disappear. But it becomes less lonely. “I felt ganged up on,” you say. Laura’s face crumples slightly, but she stays quiet.
Pou nods once, slowly. “Okay.” “
When you both started telling me the good parts, it felt like you were on one side of the room and I was on the other.” You swallow. “Like I had to prove it was bad enough to be upset about.”
Laura takes that in. “I can see that.”
“It wasn’t intentional,” you say. “I know that. But it still hurt.”
Pou’s voice is low. “We hurt you by trying to soothe you out of something that needed to be named.” You nod.
Laura sits down at the island, like her legs have gone unsteady. “You’re right.”
“I don’t want to be managed,” you say. “I want to be included. Even when I’m panicking. Even when you think I’m spiraling. Especially then.”
Pou leans back against the counter. “Okay.”
“And I don’t want decisions made in the room without me because you’re trying to protect me.”
Laura looks at the phone in her hand. “Then we need to decide together. Right now. What do we want Team Canada to say?”
The question settles between the three of you. Not what comms wants. Not what will make it go away. Not what will make the team comfortable. What do we want? Arlo nudges your hand. You look down at him, and his tail moves once.
“I need a minute,” you say. Pou nods immediately.
“Take one.” You move past them toward the living room. Arlo follows so closely that his nose bumps the back of your leg with every step.
You end up on the floor beside the couch, back pressed against the soft front of it, knees drawn up loosely. Arlo circles twice, then lowers himself across your lap with the heavy confidence of a dog who has decided he is needed and will not be taking feedback. He is too big to be a lap dog. He has never cared. His front half sprawls across your thighs. His head lands against your stomach. When you run your fingers through the longer fur behind his ears, his eyes close with a long, dramatic sigh. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Same.”
From the kitchen, you can hear Laura and Pou talking quietly. You can't make out the words. You are grateful for that. For once, you don’t want to monitor every syllable, every decision, every careful attempt not to make things worse. You just want to breathe. Arlo’s weight helps. Not metaphorically. Literally. The pressure of him across your legs gives your body something to understand. Something simple. Here is the floor. Here is the couch. Here is your dog. Here is the warmth of him. Here is the rise and fall of his breathing. Here is one living creature in the world who doesn't need you to explain the difference between privacy and shame. You press your palm to his side and count his breaths. One. Two. Three. Your phone buzzes again on the coffee table. You flinch. Arlo lifts his head and looks at the phone, then at you, as if personally offended by its existence. That almost makes you laugh. Almost.
“You’re right,” you tell him softly. “Very rude.” His tail thumps. You pick up the phone because not knowing is somehow worse. There are more texts.
Mom: I’m not angry. I’m confused and hurt, but I’m not angry. Please call me when you can.
Jenna: Okay, I panicked and sent too many question marks. I’m sorry. I love you. I just wish I had known because I would’ve loved you through it.
Sarah: I’m sorry. I’m not mad you didn’t tell me. I’m mad that you didn’t get to tell me yourself.
Then Marcus again.
Marcus: I talked to Denise at the front desk. She knows not to confirm anything if anyone calls. I also blocked your online booking page for the day so people can’t grab random consult slots to ask invasive questions.
Another message.
Marcus: Also, Dr. Shah texted me. She wants you to know she has your back professionally. She said your relationship structure is not a clinical ethics issue, but being outed without consent is a privacy issue.
You read that one three times. Your relationship structure is not a clinical ethics issue. You didn’t realize how badly you needed someone in your professional world to say that until it is sitting in blue and gray bubbles on your screen. Another message comes through.
Marcus: I’m worried about you as a human, not just as a colleague. Call when you can. No pressure.
Your throat tightens. For nine years, your privacy has had a cost. You knew that. You talked about that at the picnic. But you thought of the cost mostly in emotional terms. Loneliness. Secrecy. The ache of being called a friend. You didn't think this version through enough. The professional blast radius. Your private life running directly into your work with queer youth, family systems, boundaries, disclosure, and trust. Parents of clients asking whether your life makes you biased. Colleagues wondering why they never knew. The practice needing a plan because people online might decide your office is part of the story. You have always told clients that visibility matters. You have also built your career on careful, ethical privacy. Now both truths are sitting in your lap, as heavy as Arlo.
You open Instagram again even though you know you shouldn't. The original post is gone from Team Canada’s page, but fan accounts have already reposted screenshots. You click one because your self-preservation instincts are apparently taking a long coffee break. There are comments under that too.
bluepaintbabe: Team Canada deleted the post. Something feels off. Hope everyone involved is okay.
leftwing_lesbian: If this accidentally outed someone, that’s not Pride. That’s careless.
hockeydad204: Don’t post people’s private relationships without consent. Basic respect.
throuplethread: As a poly person, I loved seeing the photo, but consent matters more than representation.
puckprincess88: I got excited earlier but now I feel bad. Hope they’re safe.
You sit with those for a while. Consent matters more than representation. The words settle somewhere deep. That is what you could not say earlier when Laura and Pou were trying to find the hopeful angle. The photo did matter. It did help people. You believe that. You have to believe that, or the whole thing feels unbearable. But it was not freely given. And visibility that is taken from you is not the same as bravery. Arlo shifts, pressing his nose under your wrist until your hand falls back onto his head. “Okay,” you whisper. “I’m here.” He huffs. You keep petting him.
A few minutes later, Laura appears in the doorway. She doesn't come all the way in. “Can I sit?” You nod. She crosses the room slowly and lowers herself onto the floor beside you. Arlo lifts his head just enough to inspect her, then sets it back down on your lap. Laura smiles faintly. “He’s guarding you.”
“He’s the only one handling this appropriately.”
“That’s fair.” The silence that follows is not empty. It is careful, but not in the bad way. Careful like Laura is choosing each word because she knows the wrong ones could bruise. “I’m sorry,” she says eventually. “Not just for the post. I know we didn’t post it, but I’m sorry for what happened after. I’m sorry I made you feel like you had to defend being hurt.”
You look down at Arlo’s fur. “I know you were trying to help.”
“I was trying to make it less terrifying,” Laura says. “But I think I was also trying to make it less terrifying for me.” You glance at her. She leans her head back against the couch. “If I could focus on the good comments, the representation, the people saying kind things, then I didn’t have to sit with the fact that someone took a private moment from us. From you. And that the team, my team, helped do that.”
“Your team didn’t mean to.”
“No,” she says. “But impact matters.” You let out a slow breath. Laura’s voice gets quieter. “I think I also wanted the good comments to mean we didn’t make the wrong choice all these years.” Your hand stills on Arlo’s head. “You know?” Laura says. “Like if people were supportive, then maybe we could tell ourselves we didn’t need to be so scared. That we could’ve been open sooner. That maybe we hurt you for nothing by staying private.”
The honesty hurts because you have thought the same thing. “It wasn’t for nothing,” you say.
“No?”
“No.” You look at her. “There were reasons. Real ones. My work. Your careers. Families. Media. Fans. The way people turn anything they don’t understand into a debate topic. Privacy protected us.” Laura nods slowly. “And trapped us.”
“Yeah.” Arlo sighs again, deeply put upon by human complexity. Laura reaches toward him, then pauses.
“May I?”
“He’s not actually my emotional support employee.” Arlo lifts his head at the word support, then immediately pushes his nose into Laura’s hand. Laura laughs softly and scratches his ears. “Could’ve fooled me.” For a few seconds, the two of you sit like that, side by side, Arlo half-draped across your lap. Then Laura says, “Can I say something that might come out badly?” You tense. “That’s a terrible opener.”
“I know.” She gives a humorless little laugh. “I just don’t want to make it worse.”
“Say it.”
Laura looks at her hands. “Sometimes I worry that you think my love for Pou is the official one and my love for you is the secret one.” Your chest tightens. She looks over at you. “And I understand why it feels that way. We’re married. People know us as a couple. There are rings, paperwork, photos, and years of public history. But that’s not how it feels inside me.” You don’t speak. Laura keeps going, voice low and steady. “My relationship with Pou is mine and Pou’s. It has its own language, its own history, its own shape. But my relationship with you isn’t an accessory to that. It’s not less serious because people don’t see it. It’s not softer because it isn’t legal. It’s not something I fit around my marriage. It’s one of the loves of my life.” Your eyes burn, but you hold still. Laura’s mouth pulls tight. “And I hate that today made you feel like the hidden part. I hate that I contributed to that.”
“You didn’t post the photo.”
“No,” she says. “But I’ve helped build the conditions where people could look at it and think you were something smaller than what you are.” That one hurts. Because it is true. You lean your head back against the couch.
“I don’t know how to be mad at you without feeling guilty.”
Laura turns toward you. “You don’t have to make your anger gentle so I can handle it.”
“That sounds like something I would say to a client.”
“Maybe you’re good at your job.” Despite everything, your mouth twitches. Laura reaches for your hand slowly, giving you plenty of time to refuse. You don’t. When her fingers slide between yours, you let them. Her hand feels different from Pou’s. Laura’s touch has always had a kind of careful warmth to it, as if she were listening with her skin. Pou grounds you by being steady. Laura grounds you by noticing every tiny shift. “I love you,” Laura says. “Not as part of a set. Not as part of Pou and me. I love you as you. I need you to know that.”
“I do know that,” you whisper.
“Do you?” You look at her. The answer is yes. The answer is also no. The answer is, at home, always. In public, almost never. Laura seems to understand without you having to say it.
“Then we’ll make it easier to know,” she says. You squeeze her hand once. Laura moves closer, slow enough that you can stop her if you need to. When you don’t, she presses her forehead to your temple. The contact is small, but it nearly unravels you. You’ve spent the whole morning being watched, tagged, named wrong, and handled too carefully. This is different. This is chosen. Her hand leaves yours and settles at your waist, thumb tracing a quiet line over the fabric of your shirt. Not possessive. Not performative. Just there. “I hated seeing you step back from me in the kitchen,” she admits. Your throat tightens.
“I hated doing it.”
“I know.” Laura’s voice is soft against your hair. “But you needed space.”
“I needed you too.”
Her breath catches. You turn toward her then, and she meets you halfway. The kiss is gentle at first, more apology than hunger, but then your hand curls into the front of her sweatshirt and her fingers tighten at your waist. Something shifts. Not into urgency exactly, but into relief. Into the quiet ache of being able to touch without checking who might be watching. Laura kisses you again, deeper this time, and you feel the tension in her body loosen as yours does. Her other hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, and you let yourself lean into her until your shoulder presses against her chest and Arlo gives a dramatic sigh from your lap, deeply offended by being jostled. You break the kiss with a breathless laugh. Laura rests her forehead against yours. “He’s judging us.”
“He’s always judging us.”
“He thinks I’m doing a bad job comforting you.”
“He’s not wrong. He’s been carrying this family all morning.” Laura laughs, but her eyes stay soft. She kisses your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, then rests her lips against your forehead.
“I’m here,” she says. “Not just when it’s easy to explain. Not just when nobody’s looking. I’m here.” You close your eyes and let yourself believe her.
Pou finds you fifteen minutes later in the backyard. You had gone out to get air after Laura went back to answer a message from her sister. Arlo followed, of course, and now he is nosing around the fence line like he is conducting a very important security sweep. The air is warmer now, late morning sliding toward noon. The grass is a little damp beneath your bare feet. Somewhere down the street, a lawn mower drones steadily. You are standing near the garden bed, staring at nothing, when the back door opens. Pou steps onto the deck but doesn't come down right away. “Can I come over?” The question makes your chest ache all over again. “Sure.”
She walks down the steps and joins you by the garden. For a while, neither of you says anything. Pou isn't as naturally talkative as Laura in moments like this. She chooses words like she chooses passes, carefully, aware that timing matters. Arlo trots over to greet her, tail wagging. Pou crouches to pet him, murmuring something in French under her breath that you can't fully catch but know is affectionate by the softness of her voice. Then she stands. “I owe you a better apology,” she says.
You fold your arms loosely. “Okay.”
Pou nods, accepting the bluntness. “When I said we were trying to keep you from spiraling, I made it sound like your reaction was the thing that needed managing. That was wrong.”
“Yeah.”
“I was scared,” she says. “And when I’m scared, I want a plan. I want control. I want to make the next right move before anyone can get hurt worse. But you weren’t asking for a captain. You were asking for your partner.” Your throat tightens. Pou looks at you directly. “I’m sorry I forgot the difference.” You look away for a second because the apology lands too close.
“I know you were trying,” you say.
“I was,” she says. “But trying doesn’t erase what happened.” You let out a slow breath. “No.”
Pou looks toward the house. Through the window, you can see Laura in the kitchen, one hand holding her phone, the other pressed to her forehead. Pou follows your gaze. Her expression softens in a way that reminds you, very suddenly, that this is not just you and them. It’s you and Pou. You and Laura. Pou and Laura. All three lines of the triangle pulling taut at once. “She’s scared,” Pou says.
“I know.”
“She feels like she failed you.”
“You both keep saying that.”
“Because we both feel it.” You look at her.
“Do you feel like you failed Laura too?” Pou goes quiet. It is a different silence than before.
“Yes,” she says finally. “In a different way.” You wait. Pou’s jaw moves like she is pressing her teeth together. “Laura wants everyone safe. All the time. She’ll make herself the cushion between people if she can. And I think sometimes I let her do that because she looks calm while she’s doing it.” You look through the window again. Laura is still standing there, shoulders tense.
“She isn’t calm,” you say.
“No.” Pou’s voice softens. “She’s not.”
For a moment, the two of you watch Laura separately, together. That’s the thing people miss when they see only pieces of the three of you. They assume a triangle means competition. Unevenness. Two people against one. A couple and an addition. They don’t see moments like this. You and Pou standing in the yard, both loving Laura from different angles. Both worried about the way she folds herself around everyone else’s pain. Pou turns back to you. “I need you to know something.” You meet her eyes. “I love Laura,” she says.
“I know.”
“And I love you.”
“I know that too.”
“No,” Pou says, a little firmer. “I love you. Not because Laura loves you. Not because you fit into my life with her. Not because you make our home softer or easier or more balanced. I love you because you’re you.” Your arms tighten around yourself. Pou steps closer, but stops before touching you. “And I hate that the world saw a photo and immediately tried to decide whether you were attached to me or attached to Laura or attached to the idea of us. Like they had to solve you.” The words hit so cleanly that you almost lose your breath.
“I don’t want to be solved,” you say.
“I know.”
“I don’t want to be a question either.”
“I know that too.” You look down at the grass. “You and Laura are the answer people already have.”
Pou takes that in. “Yes.”
“And I’m the part that complicates it.”
“You’re the part that makes it true,” Pou says. You look up. She holds your gaze. “Not easy. Not simple. True.”
The word settles. True. The photo was true. The comments were not. The assumptions were not. The post wasn't, not fully, because truth taken without consent becomes something else in public hands. But the three of you? That's true. Pou’s voice drops. “About the surrogate comments.” Your stomach tightens.
“I hate them,” she says. “I hate them in a way I don’t know what to do with. Because I remember what you said at the picnic. I remember you saying you were scared people would see you as a friend carrying a baby for us instead of a mother building a family with us.” You look away. “And then someone said it,” Pou continues. “Not because they know you. Not because they know us. Just because the shape of our life didn’t make sense to them, so they filled in the blank with the easiest story.” The wind shifts across the yard.
You whisper, “That’s what people do.”
“It’s not what we’re going to do,” Pou says. “Not anymore. We don’t get to control every stranger, but we do control what we make clear inside our family. You are not a favor. You are not a solution for my career or Laura’s. You are not the body we use because ours are inconvenient.” Your eyes sting again. Pou steps closer, but stops before touching you. “And I need to say that for me too. Because I know I’ve let you carry that fear. I’ve let you talk like pregnancy would naturally fall to you because my body is my job. And I didn’t stop that hard enough.”
“You did stop it.”
“Not hard enough,” she says. “So I’m stopping it now. If we have a child, we decide together. No one disappears. No one sacrifices their body to make the other two more comfortable. No one becomes a secret surrogate because the world doesn’t understand what a mother can look like.” Your breath shakes. Pou waits.
“I don’t know if I want to carry,” you admit. “I don’t know if I don’t. I just know I don’t want fear making the choice.”
“Then fear doesn’t get the only vote.”
That almost makes you smile. “That sounds very captain of you.”
“I am very captain.”
“You’re also very bossy.”
Pou’s mouth curves. “Also true.” The moment softens. Then she lifts her hand, stopping just short of your cheek. “Can I?”
You nod. Her palm settles against your face, warm and steady. You lean into it before you can overthink it. Pou’s love isn't always wordy. It's not always easy. Sometimes it arrives as logistics, as plans, as carefully controlled anger directed at the right target. Sometimes it arrives as a hand on your cheek in the backyard, her thumb brushing once beneath your eye even though you're not crying. “I’m sorry,” she says again.
“I know.”
“I love you.”
“I know that too.” Pou studies you, and there’s something in her expression that makes your chest tighten. “Do you know how much?”
Your answer catches in your throat. She steps closer, close enough that the toes of her socks brush yours in the grass. Her hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers firm and warm. Pou has always touched like she means it, like she is making a promise with her whole body. “I love you when it’s easy,” she says. “I love you when it’s terrifying. I love you when I don’t know what the right answer is. I love you when the world looks at us and gets it wrong.” Your hands settle at her waist.
“Marie.”
“I love you,” she repeats, quieter now, “and I’m sorry I let you feel like that love had to stay smaller to keep us safe.”
You pull her in then, or maybe she pulls you. It doesn’t really matter. The kiss is slow and deep, the kind that steals the rest of the sentence from your mouth. Pou’s hand tightens at the back of your neck, and your fingers curl into her shirt as the morning finally catches up with you. The anger. The fear. The relief. The want. When she breaks the kiss, she doesn’t move far. Her forehead rests against yours, her breath warm against your mouth. “You’re not an addition,” she says. You swallow.
“I know.”
“Not a favor.”
“I know.”
“Not a secret surrogate.” Your eyes sting, but you hold her gaze.
“I know.” Pou kisses you once more, softer this time.
“Good.” Arlo barks from near the fence. Pou looks over. “He disapproves of emotional intimacy without him.”
“He’s been very involved today.”
“He’s family.” You look at her.
Pou’s face gentles. “He is.”
The word family doesn't cut this time. It lands where it belongs.
Around noon, Team Canada requests a call. This time, they request it with all three of you included. That part matters. You sit at the kitchen table with your laptop open, Pou on one side of you, Laura on the other. Arlo lies beneath the table with his chin on your foot, like he's appointed himself legal counsel. The call includes two people from communications, one senior staff member, and Allie. Allie looks miserable.
As soon as the call starts, she says, “I want to apologize first. I know comms already did, but I need to say it directly. I flagged that photo as private. I put it in the internal folder because I thought you might want it later, but I labeled it not for posting. I should’ve kept it separate entirely. I’m so sorry.” You believe her. That doesn't make the day easier, but it matters.
“Thank you,” you say. “I appreciate you telling us.”
One of the communications staff members explains what happened. The folder had been pulled for the Pride carousel early that morning. Someone saw the image, thought it was beautiful and aligned with the caption, and included it without checking the private flag. It is exactly as impersonal and careless as you feared. Not malicious. Not thoughtful either. “We are reviewing our consent procedures,” the staff member says. “This shouldn't have happened.”
Pou’s voice is controlled. “No, it shouldn’t have.” Laura adds, “You need a separate process for any image that could reveal personal relationships, family structures, children, or private identities. Pride content especially.”
The staff member nods. “Agreed.” You listen for a while, one hand under the table, resting on Arlo’s head. He licks your fingers once.
Then the senior staff member says, “We also wanted to ask how you would prefer us to handle future inquiries. We’ve already received interview requests.” Your stomach tightens. Pou looks at you first. Laura does too. The difference is immediate. This morning, you felt like they were standing together and you were trying to catch up. Now, they are waiting. Not making you decide alone. Not deciding for you. Waiting with you.
You take a breath. “No interviews.” Pou nods. “No interviews.” Laura adds, “For any of us.” The staff member writes that down.
“Understood.”
“And no statement identifying our relationship further,” you say. The words feel strange, but you keep going. “If people ask, the answer is that private relationships are private, and no one is entitled to details.” Laura’s hand finds yours beneath the table. Pou says, “Exactly.”
The communications staff member nods. “We can use that language.” You sit a little straighter. “Also, comments that speculate about surrogacy or pregnancy need to be removed. Immediately.” Allie’s face tightens with sympathy.
“Absolutely,” the staff member says. “We’ve already begun moderating those.”
You look at the screen. “That speculation is not harmless.”
“No,” Allie says quietly. “It isn’t.”
The call lasts twenty-six minutes. By the end, nothing is magically fixed. The screenshot still exists. People still saw it. Your mother still found out from Facebook. Your friends still have questions. The team still knows. But there is a plan. A real one. A plan you helped make. When the call ends, you close the laptop and exhale. Pou leans back in her chair. “How are you feeling?”
You consider lying out of habit. Then you don’t. “Wrung out.” Laura nods. “Yeah.”
“Also hungry.”
Pou immediately stands. “I can make lunch.” You raise an eyebrow.
“Can you?”
She points at you. “I can assemble lunch.”
Laura smiles. “That’s more accurate.”
Pou opens the fridge and stares into it with the focus of someone studying game tape. “We have turkey, cheese, hummus, leftover pasta, half a cucumber, and something in foil that I’m afraid of.”
“Laura made that,” you say.
Laura sits up. “That's roasted cauliflower.”
Pou looks over her shoulder. “Why is it looking at me?”
“It isn’t looking at you.”
“It has intent.” You laugh, and the sound surprises all three of you. Arlo emerges from beneath the table, instantly hopeful at the mention of lunch. Pou points at him. “You’re on my side, right?” Arlo sneezes. “Betrayal,” Pou mutters. It's not fine. But it's your kitchen. Your people. Your dog. Your weird foil-wrapped cauliflower. And for the first time since you woke up, your body starts to believe the day might not destroy you.
At one in the afternoon, Pou’s phone starts buzzing again with her Team Canada group chat. It is not your chat. It has never been your chat. You are not part of Team Canada in any official or unofficial way. You know some of the players because you love Pou and Laura, because you have stood near picnic tables and watched badminton games and carried coolers beside them, but you aren't on the roster, not on the staff, not in the group texts where team business happens. Whatever they are saying now, you only know it because Pou and Laura choose to read it to you. She looks at you before opening it.
“Read it,” you say. So she does.
Nursey: I know we’re giving space, but I want to say this clearly. I like her. We all like her. I’m just realizing I didn’t know something huge, and I don’t know how to talk about it without making it weird.
Spooner: Same. I feel awful because I called her your friend. And I meant it kindly, but now I’m replaying the picnic and realizing I probably made her feel like an outsider.
Rebecca: I asked her about how she knew you both, and she said you’d been friends a long time. I believed her because why wouldn’t I? Now I feel like I accidentally made her lie to me.
Jamie: I put her directly on the spot during badminton. I keep thinking about her face. I thought I was just being friendly.
Jenner: Nobody had the full context. That matters. But now we need to make sure we don’t demand context from them just because we’re surprised.
Melodie: I’m confused, but not in a bad way. More like, I’m realizing there was a whole part of your family we didn’t know how to see.
You sit very still. The messages are kind. They still hurt. Laura watches you. “Do you want me to respond?”
You think about it. “Maybe we respond together.” Pou nods, already handing you the phone. You type slowly, then read it aloud before sending.
Pou: We appreciate everyone giving us space. The post went up without approval, and we’re dealing with it together. Please don’t ask for details right now. What matters is that she’s not an outsider.
Laura adds, “Can I add something?” You nod. She types under Pou’s message.
Laura: We know people are confused. That’s fair. We kept a lot private for a long time. But confusion can still be handled with care. Please don’t speculate about labels, family planning, or who belongs where.
She looks at you. You nod. Pou sends both messages. The replies come quickly.
Nursey: Understood. Thank you for trusting us with that much.
Spooner: I’m sorry again. I won’t ask questions. I just want her to know she’s welcome with us.
Rebecca: Same. I’d like to apologize to her directly someday, but only if she wants that.
Jamie: Please tell her I’m sorry. No pressure to respond.
Jenner: Giving space. Sending love to all three of you.
Melodie: Thanks for explaining what you can. We’ll follow your lead.
For a while, nobody speaks. Then Laura says, “How does that feel?”
You stare at the screen. “Like being talked about by people who care but still don’t know me.”
Pou nods. “Yeah.”
“That’s better than being talked about by people who don’t care.”
“It is,” Laura says.
“But it’s still strange.”
“Yeah,” Pou says. “It is.” Your phone buzzes. Marcus again.
Marcus: I’m going to ask something practical, not personal. Do you want me to send a note to your clients for today saying you had an unexpected privacy breach and will be rescheduling, or do you want it vaguer than that?
You stare at the message. The phrase privacy breach makes your chest go tight. Professional. Clean. Accurate. You show it to Pou and Laura. Laura reads it and exhales. “Marcus sounds solid.”
“He is.”
Pou leans closer. “What do you want to say?” You think about it. Not what you should say. Not what would be easiest for the practice. What do you want? You type back.
You: Vague for clients. Unexpected personal matter. No details. For staff, you can say I was involved in a privacy breach connected to a public post, and I’ll address professional concerns directly if they come up. Please make it clear no one should discuss my relationship or confirm anything to callers.
Marcus replies almost immediately.
Marcus: Done. Also, for what it’s worth, you’re a good therapist. This doesn’t change that.
You stare at that line for longer than you mean to. You’re a good therapist. Laura’s hand settles between your shoulder blades.
“Hey.” You blink. “You okay?”
“I think I needed to hear that.”
Pou’s expression softens. “You are a good therapist.”
“I know. I just…” You set the phone down. “So much of my work is about trust. Parents trust me with their kids. Teens trust me with things they haven’t said out loud anywhere else. I have to hold boundaries. I have to be safe. And now people are going to look at me and wonder if my personal life is relevant.”
Laura’s hand moves slowly over your back. “Is it?”
“Clinically? Not in the way people might think.” You take a breath, grateful for the familiar language of your work. “Therapists have personal lives. We don’t owe clients every detail. But I specialize in LGBTQ+ youth and family systems. So people might assume I’m biased, or that I disclose too much, or that I’m pushing a worldview instead of supporting clients. And if a parent already feels uneasy about affirming therapy, this gives them something to latch onto.”
Pou’s face hardens. “That’s unfair.”
“Yes,” you say. “And real.”
Laura nods slowly. “What do you need professionally?” The question steadies you.
“I need to talk to Dr. Shah. I need to document what happened in case any clients or parents bring it up. I need a script for the office. I need to decide whether I’m working tomorrow or taking a day.”
Pou nods. “Okay. We’ll help.” You look at her.
She corrects herself. “If you want help.”
“Thank you.”
Laura says, “And Marcus?” “I’ll call him after my mom.”
Pou’s eyebrows lift slightly. “That sounds like a lot.”
“It is.”
“Do you want us with you for those calls?” You look between them.
“Yes,” you say. “But I need to lead.”
Laura nods. “You lead.”
Pou says, “We follow.” The simplicity of it helps.
By two, you call your mother. It takes you ten minutes to press the button. You sit on the back porch steps with Arlo pressed against your side, your phone in your lap, and Laura and Pou just inside the open sliding door. Close enough to be there. Far enough to let the conversation be yours. It's your idea. That matters. Arlo rests his chin on your thigh, his big brown eyes looking up at you like he is deeply invested in family communication. “You’re not subtle,” you tell him. His tail taps against the porch. You call. Your mother answers on the second ring.
“Hi, honey.” Her voice is careful, which hurts more than anger would.
“Hi, Mom.” There is a pause. You can hear her breathing.
“I saw the apology,” she says.
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry that happened.”
The sentence catches you off guard. You were prepared for hurt. For questions. For why didn’t you tell me. You weren't prepared for sympathy first. “Thanks,” you say, and your voice comes out smaller than you wanted.
“I’m still hurt,” she says. “I won’t lie about that.”
“I know.”
“But I’m trying to separate being hurt from what happened to you today. Because those aren’t the same thing.” You press your fingers into Arlo’s fur.
“No. They’re not.”
“I wish I had heard it from you.”
“I know.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t love you?” Your eyes burn, but you don't cry. You look at the yard, at the patch of grass Arlo keeps digging up no matter how many times Pou fills it in. “I didn’t know what you would do with it,” you say honestly. “And that felt too scary to risk.”
Your mother is quiet. Then she says, “How long”
"Nine years."
"Nine years?" She asks back in shock.
“Yeah.”
“Oh, honey.” There is no accusation in it this time. Just sadness.
“I wanted to tell you,” you say. “A lot of times. And then every time I tried, I thought about having to explain all of it. Not just that I love them, but how. What that means. What it doesn’t mean. Whether it’s serious. Whether it’s stable. Whether I’m being used. Whether I’m confused. And I couldn’t handle the idea of you looking at my life like it was something strange.”
“I might have asked clumsy questions,” she admits.
“I know.”
“I might still.”
“I know that too.”
“But I wouldn’t have stopped loving you.” You look down at Arlo, who has pushed his nose under your hand again.
“I think some part of me knows that,” you say. “But fear doesn’t always listen to the reasonable part.”
“No,” your mother says softly. “It doesn’t.”
Behind you, you hear a quiet sound. You turn slightly and see Laura standing just inside the doorway, arms wrapped around herself. Pou is behind her, one hand on the counter, watching you with a kind of helpless love that makes your chest ache. Your mother says, “Are they there?”
“Yes.”
“Pou and Laura?”
“Yes.”
“Do they love you well?” You look at them. Pou’s mouth tightens like she is trying very hard not to react. Laura’s eyes shine.
“They do,” you say. “Not perfectly. Today was hard. But yes. They love me well.”
Your mother exhales. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I don’t have to understand everything today to be glad you’re loved.”
The sentence lands gently. It is not a perfect resolution. It is not a movie moment where all fear disappears. Your mother still sounds hurt. You still feel guilty. There will be more conversations, more questions, more places where language fails before it gets better. But it is a door opening. Not wide. Enough.
“I want you to meet them properly,” you say.
“I’d like that.” You look back at Pou and Laura again.
“They’d like that too.” Pou nods quickly, like your mother can see her. Laura presses a hand to her chest.
Your mother says, “And honey?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry strangers got to know before I did. Not because I deserved your truth before you were ready, but because you deserved to tell it in your own time.” This time, your eyes do fill, but the tears don't fall.
“Thanks, Mom.” After you hang up, you stay on the porch for a moment with the phone in your hand.
Laura comes out first. “Okay?”
You nod. “Better than I expected.”
Pou sits on the step below you. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not yet.”
“Okay.” Arlo, apparently deciding the conversation needs closure, climbs halfway into your lap and licks your chin. You make a disgusted noise.
“Arlo.”
Laura laughs, sitting beside you. “He’s proud of you.”
“He has no concept of emotional bravery. He ate a sock last month.”
Pou scratches Arlo’s chest. “Maybe the sock was emotionally brave.” You look at her. She shrugs. “We don’t know his journey.”
You groan, but you’re smiling. The three of you sit there on the porch steps, Arlo sprawled across all of you, the afternoon sun warming your shoulders. For a little while, the phones stay inside. For a little while, the world is only the yard, the dog, and the people you love.
You call Marcus at two forty-five. You sit in your office at home for this one, because the professional part of your life needs its own space. Pou and Laura stay just outside the door after you ask them to. Arlo, however, refuses to respect professional boundaries and plants himself under your desk with his chin on your foot. Marcus answers on the first ring.
“Hey,” he says. “First thing, are you safe?” The question makes your chest squeeze.
“Yes. I’m home.”
“Good. Are Pou and Laura with you?” You pause. You have never heard him say their names together like that. Not with the weight of knowing what they mean.
“Yes.”
“Good,” he says again. “Okay. Work stuff. I cleared your schedule for today. I told clients there was an unexpected personal matter and that we’d reschedule or offer coverage if urgent. Nobody pushed back.” Your shoulders drop a fraction.
“Thank you.”
“Denise knows not to confirm anything to callers. I told her if someone asks whether you work here, she can use the standard line about not disclosing provider schedules or personal information.”
“Good.”
“Dr. Shah called me. She wants you to call her when you’re ready, not because you’re in trouble, but because she thinks you need support before parents or clients start asking questions.” You close your eyes.
“That’s probably smart.”
“Also,” Marcus says, then pauses.
“What?” “I need to tell you something that might upset you.” Your stomach tightens.
“Okay.”
“A parent emailed the general office account. Their kid is on your caseload. They didn’t name the post directly, but they asked whether providers are required to disclose ‘alternative lifestyles’ that could influence treatment.” Your whole body goes cold. Arlo lifts his head from your foot.
Marcus says quickly, “I haven’t responded. Dr. Shah and I both think the response should be firm, boring, and policy-based. Something like, all providers follow ethical guidelines, personal protected information isn’t disclosed to clients or families, and treatment remains client-centered and evidence-informed.” You press your fingertips to your eyes.
“Oh my god.”
“I know.”
“This is exactly what I was afraid of.”
“I know,” Marcus says again, softer this time. “But listen to me. One parent asking a gross question doesn’t mean your reputation is gone. It means one parent asked a gross question.”
You let out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “That’s very clinical of you.”
“I’m trying not to say what I’d like to say about them.”
“I appreciate the restraint.”
“Barely restrained,” Marcus says. “Deeply heroic.” Despite yourself, you smile.
Then his voice gentles. “You’re good at your job. You know that, right?”
“I usually do.”
“Know it today too.” Your eyes sting. Marcus continues, “You’ve helped half the queer kids in this city feel like they can breathe. Your relationship doesn’t undermine that. If anything, the fact that you understand complicated identity and privacy from the inside probably makes you better at it. Not because clients need to know your business, but because you know what it costs to be perceived.” You do cry then, just a little. Quietly. One hand pressed over your mouth so Pou and Laura won’t hear from the hallway. Marcus pretends not to notice. That is one of the things you love about him. “What do you need from me?” he asks.
“I need tomorrow morning off,” you say, wiping your cheek quickly. “Maybe the whole day. I don’t know yet.”
“Done.”
“And I need help drafting the office response.”
“Already started.”
“And if reporters call…”
“We don’t talk to reporters.”
“Good.”
“And as your friend,” Marcus adds, “you don’t owe anyone a perfectly polished version of yourself today. Not your clients. Not your partners. Not your mom. Not Team Canada. Nobody.” You breathe in slowly. “I needed that too.”
“I figured.”
You hang up ten minutes later with a list of next steps, an email draft coming your way, and the strange relief of not having to hold the professional fallout alone. When you open the door, Pou and Laura are sitting on the hallway floor. You stare at them. Laura looks up. “We didn’t want to hover.” “So you sat on the floor outside my office?” Pou says, “It felt less hover-y from down here.”
You look between them. Then you laugh. Not because it is funny enough to fix anything, but because they look so earnest and ridiculous and worried, and because Arlo squeezes past your legs to join them like he too has been part of the hallway support team. Laura stands first.
“How was Marcus?”
“Good,” you say.
“Concerned. Helpful. Mad on my behalf.”
Pou nods approvingly. “I like Marcus.”
“You’ve never met Marcus.”
“I like his energy.”
Laura asks, “Professional stuff?”
You nod. “Some. A parent emailed the office.”
Laura’s face tightens. “About the post?”
“Not directly. But yes.”
Pou stands too. “What do you need?”
You glance between them. “My brain says I need to handle it alone because it’s my job.”
Laura nods slowly. “And what do you actually need?”
You swallow. “I need you to sit with me while I read the draft from Marcus and Dr. Shah.”
Pou’s voice softens. “We can do that.”
“Without trying to fix it.”
She nods. “Without trying to fix it.”
Laura adds, “Unless you ask.”
“Unless I ask.” That is enough. For now, enough is everything.
At four, you sit with Pou in the kitchen while Laura takes a call from her family. The house has gone quieter again, not peaceful exactly, but less frantic. Team Canada’s apology has been posted. The comments are being moderated. Marcus has sent a draft of the office response. Dr. Shah has emailed you directly, kind and firm and professionally unshaken. You should feel better. You do, a little. But better is not the same as fine. Pou is making tea because she doesn't know what else to do with her hands. She moves around the kitchen with the focused precision she brings to everything: mug, kettle, tea bag, spoon, honey. It's almost funny, how seriously she takes small tasks when big ones are out of her control. You sit at the island, watching her. She catches you looking.
“What?”
“You’re aggressively making tea.”
“I’m making tea normally.”
“You’re making tea like it insulted your team.”
Pou looks down at the mug. “It knows what it did.” You smile, but it fades quickly. Pou sees that too. She brings the mug over and sets it in front of you, then leans against the counter opposite you. “What happened?” she asks.
“Nothing new.”
“That’s not what I asked.” You wrap both hands around the mug.
“I keep thinking about the parent who emailed the office.”
Pou’s face hardens. “The one Marcus mentioned.”
“Yeah.” You stare into the tea. “I know how to respond professionally. I know the ethics. I know my personal life isn’t something I’m required to disclose. I know the work I do is sound. But there’s a difference between knowing that and imagining a parent looking at me like I’m unsafe for their kid because they saw a photo of me loving you.” Pou’s jaw flexes. You continue, “And then I feel guilty because so many of my clients are queer kids who need to see adults living full lives. Maybe seeing me out, even accidentally, could help them. But they’re clients. They’re not supposed to carry my story. They’re supposed to have their own space.”
Pou sits beside you. “That’s a lot to hold.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you want my honest thought?” You glance at her.
“Usually dangerous, but yes.”
“I think you’re allowed to be both a private person and a real person. Even with clients.” You look down at the mug. Pou continues, “You don’t have to turn yourself into a blank wall to be ethical. And you don’t have to turn yourself into representation for everyone else to be useful. Maybe some clients will see it and feel less alone. Maybe some parents will be weird. Maybe both happen. But none of that means you did something wrong.”
You are quiet for a moment. Then you say, “You sound like Laura.”
Pou makes a face. “Take that back.” You smile. She nudges your knee with hers. “I’m serious.”
“I know.”
Pou studies you. “Can I tell you another thing?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m worried about you at work,” she admits. “Not because I think you can’t handle it. Because I know that’s the place where you’ve always felt useful. Steady. Like you can make sense of other people’s fear even when you can’t make sense of your own. And I don’t want this to take that from you.” Something in your chest softens.
“Me neither.”
Pou reaches for your hand. “It won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No,” she says. “I don’t. But I know you. You’re good at what you do. You’re not good because you’re uncomplicated. You’re good because you know how to sit with complicated things without running from them.”
You let out a quiet breath. “I ran a lot today.”
“You came back.” You look at her. Pou’s thumb brushes over your knuckles. “That matters.” Laura’s voice filters in from the living room, low and tired as she talks to someone in her family. You and Pou both look toward the sound.
“She okay?” you ask.
Pou’s face softens. “I think so. Her sister is being protective.”
“Good.” Pou’s mouth curves. “Very protective. She asked if she needed to fight the internet.”
“She and Arlo should start a club.”
“They’d be terrifying.”
The two of you sit there, hands linked on the counter, Laura’s voice in the next room, Arlo asleep in a patch of sun by the back door. A triangle doesn't always mean all three points are speaking at once. Sometimes it's you and Laura on the living room floor, naming the fear of being the hidden love. Sometimes it is you and Pou in the kitchen, hands wrapped around tea, talking about work and damage and how to keep standing. Sometimes it is Pou and Laura in another room, loving each other through their own panic while you are held by the fact that they have their own line too, a line that doesn't erase yours. You're not outside their marriage. You're not inside it either. You are part of something built beside it, through it, around it, something with three sides and three histories and three different kinds of love. Harder to explain. No less real.
At five thirty, Laura finds you in the bedroom. You are sitting on the edge of the bed with your laptop open, staring at the email draft from Marcus and Dr. Shah. Your personal protected information is not disclosed to clients or families. Our clinicians follow all relevant ethical guidelines and provide evidence-informed care. We do not comment on staff members’ private lives. It is exactly what it should be. Firm. Boring. Policy-based. You hate that it has to exist. Laura knocks softly on the doorframe even though the door is open.
“Can I come in?” You close the laptop halfway.
“Yeah.” She steps inside and shuts the door behind her. That small choice, the click of privacy, makes something in you loosen. “How’s your family?” you ask.
“Protective. Confused. Trying.” Laura sits beside you, leaving a few inches of space. “My sister said she’s sorry you got dragged into public before anyone had language for it.”
“That’s nice of her.”
“She also called the fan accounts vultures.”
“That’s also nice of her.” Laura smiles faintly, then looks at the laptop.
“Professional response?”
“Yeah.”
“Is it okay?”
“It’s good.” You rub your forehead. “It just makes it feel real in a different way. Like now there’s a workplace version of the crisis. A family version. A team version. An internet version. I’m collecting versions.”
Laura shifts closer. “And what’s the you version?” You look at her. She waits. The question is so Laura. Not what happened. Not what needs to be done. What does it feel like inside you when all the noise is stripped away?
“I feel embarrassed,” you admit. Laura’s brow furrows, but she doesn’t interrupt. “I know I didn’t do anything wrong. I know we didn’t do anything wrong by loving each other. But I feel exposed in this humiliating way. Like everyone saw me wanting something. Like they saw me wanting you both.” Laura’s face softens. “And with you, it’s…” You stop.
“With me?” she prompts. You look down at your hands. “Pou gets read as powerful no matter what. People see her as captain, leader, legend. They might be confused, but they’re not going to imagine her as someone small in this.” Laura nods slowly. “But you…” Your voice gets quieter. “You and I have always had this softer thing. Not less strong. Just quieter. You’re the one who notices when I go still. You’re the one who talks me through panic. You’re the one who makes space before I even ask for it.” Laura’s eyes shine. “And I’m scared people will look at the photo and make you the bridge. Like you and Pou are the real couple, and you're the one who is gentle enough to include me. Or that you’re caught between us. Or that I’m somehow attached to you in a way that complicates your marriage instead of being loved by you directly.” Laura inhales. You keep going because the words are out now. “I don’t want people to flatten what you and I are into you being kind to me.”
Laura turns toward you fully. “That’s not what we are.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” You look at her.
Laura’s voice is steady. “I don’t love you because I’m kind. I’m not with you because I’m too gentle to say no or because you needed a place to belong. I love you because I want you. Because you challenge me. Because you see the parts of me that hide behind being easygoing and patient and fine.” You swallow hard. She continues, “Pou sees that too. In a different way. That’s the point. We all see different parts of each other. My love for Pou doesn’t compete with my love for you. Your love for me doesn’t make Pou less central. Pou’s love for both of us doesn’t make either of us an accessory. It’s not a couple plus one. It’s three relationships and one family.” You let out a shaky breath. Laura reaches for your face with one hand, slow enough that you can move away. You don’t. Her palm settles against your cheek. “And I’m sorry the world doesn’t know how to see that yet.”
“Me too.”
“But I know how to see it,” she says. “Pou knows how to see it. And we’re going to get better at making sure you can feel that, even when other people are lost.” You close your eyes for a second. Laura’s thumb moves gently along your cheekbone. “I love you,” she says.
“I love you too.”
She leans in and kisses you. It is not rushed. Not careful in the public way. Careful in the loving way. The kind of kiss that says she is here, she is choosing you, she doesn't need an audience to make it true. When she pulls back, she rests her forehead against yours. “I’m scared too,” she whispers.
“I know.”
“I’m scared of people being curious in ways that feel kind until they aren’t. I’m scared of saying the wrong thing and hurting you. I’m scared of Pou feeling like she has to lead us through it because that’s what she does. I’m scared of wanting more visibility and knowing it came from something that hurt you.” You open your eyes. Laura’s are right there.
“I’m scared of all that too,” you say.
“Then we’ll be scared together.” You laugh softly.
“That seems to be the family motto now.”
“We should put it on a throw pillow.”
“Absolutely not.” Laura smiles, and you kiss her again because you can, because the door is closed, because this moment belongs to the two of you. Not you and Laura as a secret. You and Laura as one side of the truth.
At six thirty, the three of you end up in the living room again. Dinner is takeout because nobody has the energy to cook. Pou orders from the Thai place you all love, and Laura finds a movie none of you actually cares about watching. Arlo climbs onto the couch before anyone can stop him. “Employee privileges ended hours ago,” Laura says. Arlo rests his chin on your thigh. You look at her.
“He’s unionized.”
Pou nods. “Strong contract.”
Laura sighs, but she doesn't make him move. When the food arrives, you eat straight from takeout containers at the coffee table. It feels strangely normal. Pad thai, curry, spring rolls, Arlo staring intensely at every bite like his entire future depends on your generosity. Halfway through dinner, Pou sets her fork down.
“I need to say something.” Your stomach tenses automatically. Laura notices.
“Good something or bad something?” Pou thinks.
“Necessary something.” You set your container down.
“Okay.” Pou turns toward you fully. “I’m angry.”
You blink. “At Team Canada?” you ask.
“Yes. And at myself. And at the whole situation.” She looks down at her hands. “I’m angry that they took the choice from us. I’m angry that I didn’t protect you from it. I’m angry that part of me, for a split second, felt relieved.” Laura goes still. You do too. Pou continues before either of you can respond. “Not relieved that you were hurt. Not relieved that it happened that way. But relieved that the secret was out somewhere, somehow, and I didn’t have to be the one to make the decision. And I hate that. I hate that there was a part of me that thought, maybe now we don’t have to keep doing this.” The room is silent. You look at Laura. Her face tells you she understands too well.
“You felt that too?” you ask. Laura is quiet for a moment. Then she nods.
“For a second.” The admission hurts. It also makes sense. You wait. Laura’s voice is careful. “I saw the photo, and I panicked. Then I saw some of the positive comments, and there was this horrible little part of me that thought maybe this is easier than choosing it. Maybe if people already know, we can stop being afraid.” She looks at you. “And then I saw your face.” Your throat tightens. “And I knew there was nothing easy about it,” Laura says. “Because even if a part of me was tired of hiding, you still deserved a choice. We all did.” Pou’s eyes stay on you. “I’m sorry for that relief. I don’t want to hide behind the fact that I was scared too. You deserved better.”
You take a long breath. You could be angry about the relief. Part of you is. But another part of you recognizes it because some small, buried part of you felt something similar beneath the panic. A terrible, shameful thought that whispered, maybe now you don't have to find the courage yourself.
“I think,” you say slowly, “maybe that’s what makes this so hard.” They wait. “Because there are parts of today that are things I wanted,” you say. “I wanted people to know I wasn’t just your friend. I wanted to stop disappearing. I wanted someone to see the three of us and understand there was love there.” Laura’s eyes soften. “But I didn’t want it stolen,” you say. “And I didn’t want people to see before we knew what we were ready to say. And I didn’t want my first public role in this relationship to be decided by a comment section.” Pou nods. “I can be angry and still understand why part of you felt relieved,” you say. “But I need you to know that relief can’t turn into pressure. Not from either of you.”
“It won’t,” Pou says immediately.
Laura nods. “It won’t.”
“If we decide to be more open, it has to be because we choose it. Not because Team Canada made it harder to hide.”
Pou’s voice is firm. “Agreed.”
You look down at Arlo, who is asleep with one paw resting on your knee. “And if we decide to say something publicly someday, I need to be part of the statement. Not the subject of it.” Laura reaches for your hand.
“Yes.” Pou leans closer. “Always.”
You let yourself believe them. Not because the day has been easy. Because they've stayed. Because they've listened even when it hurt. Because they have apologized without making you comfort them. Because you've all been honest about the ugliest, most complicated parts and nobody has walked away. The movie plays quietly in the background, ignored.
After a while, Laura says, “What do we want now?” It is a simple question. Still, it feels enormous. You look at her.
“Tonight?”
“Tonight.”
You think about your mother. Jenna. Sarah. Marcus. Dr. Shah. Pou and Laura’s team chat. The apology. The comments. The office email. The parent who asked about alternative lifestyles. The stranger who called you a surrogate. “I want no more internet tonight,” you say.
Pou nods. “Done.”
“I want dessert.” Laura smiles.
“Obviously.”
“I want Arlo on the couch even though he’s not supposed to be.” Arlo opens one eye, as if aware his fate is being negotiated. Pou looks at Laura. “I support this.”
Laura sighs. “Fine. One night only.” You and Pou both look at her. She points at you. “Do not make this a policy.”
“No promises,” you say. Pou grins. The normalness of it settles over you like a blanket. Then you take a breath and say the thing that has been sitting in your chest all day. “And I want us to talk about what being more open might look like. Not tonight. Not in a crisis. But soon.”
Pou’s expression goes serious. “Okay.”
Laura nods. “Soon.”
“I don’t know what I’m ready for,” you say. “Maybe it’s only telling a few people. Maybe it’s correcting your teammates when they call me a friend. Maybe it’s letting Pou say all three of us in a room where people can hear it. Maybe it’s nothing public for a while. I don’t know.”
“That’s okay,” Laura says.
“But I don’t want to go back to exactly how it was,” you admit.
“I can’t. Not after today.” Pou reaches across Arlo to take your hand. The dog huffs at being disturbed but does not move.
“We don’t have to go back,” Pou says.
Laura’s hand covers both of yours. “We can build something different.”
“Something with more choice,” you say.
“Yes,” Laura says. “And more honesty, and fewer official Instagram surprises.” Laura says,
“That one feels very achievable.” You laugh, and the sound is tired but real.
Later, after dinner, containers are thrown away, and the phones are charging in the bedroom where nobody is allowed to touch them; the three of you end up on the living room floor. You're not sure how it happens. Laura says she wants to stretch her back. Pou says she should stretch like she's supposed to, and then demonstrates something that looks painful and unnecessary. You accuse both of them of being show-offs. Arlo interprets floor time as an invitation and immediately flops down in the middle of everyone. Soon, all three of you are lying on the rug in a loose triangle, Arlo stretched across the center like the world’s furriest boundary line. The room is dim except for the lamp in the corner. Outside, the sky has gone deep blue. The house is quiet in a way that feels earned. Laura turns her head toward you. “Do you regret leaving the photo up as long as we did this morning?”
You think about it. “I regret that it went up at all without consent.”
“Yeah.”
“I regret reading the comments alone at first.”
Pou’s face tightens. “Me too.”
“I regret that my mom found out from someone else.” Laura nods. “I regret that Marcus had to move my appointments because someone called the office.” You stare at the ceiling. “I regret that a parent now has my relationship in their head when they think about their kid’s therapy.”
Pou’s voice is quiet. “Yeah.”
You run your hand over Arlo’s side. “But I don’t know if I regret that people saw it.” Pou is quiet. Laura is too. You continue slowly. “That’s the complicated part. Some people were awful. Some people were invasive. Some people made me feel like an object or an accessory or a question.” Your throat tightens, but your voice holds. “But some people saw it and felt less alone. And I don’t think I can hate that.”
Pou’s voice is soft. “You shouldn’t have to.”
“I know.”
“Both can be true,” Laura says. You look at her. She smiles faintly. “I saw the comment too.” Both can be true.
You nod. “Both can be true,” you repeat.
Pou shifts onto her side. “Can I tell you something else?”
“Yeah.”
“I liked the photo.” You look at her. She looks nervous. Pou, who can stare down opponents, media reporters, and pressure that would flatten most people, looks nervous, saying she liked a picture. “I hate how it was used,” she says. “I hate what it did to you. I hate that it got posted without approval. But the photo itself…” She pauses. “I liked seeing us like that.” Your chest aches.
Laura nods. “Me too.”
You stare up at the ceiling. “Me too,” you admit.
For the first time all day, you let yourself think about the image without the comments attached. Without the caption. Without Team Canada’s account, fan speculation, and screenshots. Just the photo. Pou smiling at you. Laura leaning close. You laughing. A moment that was real before anyone else touched it. “I don’t want them to ruin it,” you say.
“Then they don’t get to,” Pou says.
Laura reaches over Arlo, and you meet her halfway. Your fingertips touch over the dog’s back. Pou adds her hand too. Arlo opens his eyes, deeply inconvenienced by being used as a family table, then goes back to sleep. You smile.
Laura says, “Maybe we print it.” Your first instinct is fear. Your second is something softer.
“Not big,” you say.
“Not big,” Laura agrees. “Not where guests can see it.”
Pou nods. “Bedroom?” You think about that. A private place. A place that belongs to the three of you. A place where the photo can be itself without having to explain anything to anyone.
“Yeah,” you say. “Bedroom.” Laura smiles. Pou’s thumb moves lightly over your knuckles. You lie there for a while, all three of you touching, Arlo breathing between you.
Then you say, “I want to be visible someday.” Pou’s hand stills. Laura’s eyes move to your face. You keep looking at the ceiling because it's easier. “Not like this. Not taken. Not forced. But someday, I want to be able to stand next to you both and not feel like I have to disappear for everyone to stay comfortable.”
Pou’s voice is quiet. “I want that too.”
Laura nods. “Me too.”
“I’m still scared.”
“We are too,” Laura says.
“I know.”
Pou squeezes your hand. “We can be scared and still move.”
The phrase settles into you. You had said something like it to clients before. Different words, same idea. Courage as movement, not fearlessness. Visibility as a choice, not a performance. Safety as something built in community, not found by shrinking. It's honestly annoying how often your own advice comes back to find you. You turn your head and look at them. Your partners. Your family. The women who hurt you today, not through malice but through panic and clumsy protection and their own fear. The women who listened when you told them. The women who let you be angry. The women who looped you into decisions, sat on the floor with the dog, and agreed that the photo could belong to you again. “I love you both,” you say.
Laura’s smile trembles slightly, but she doesn't cry. “I love you.”
Pou’s voice is low. “I love you too.” Arlo sighs loudly.
“And you,” you tell him.
His tail thumps once without opening his eyes.
By the end of the night, nothing is solved in the clean, final way you once imagined solutions were supposed to happen. Your mother still has questions. Your friends still have feelings. The team still knows. The internet still has screenshots. There are still people who will misunderstand, speculate, reduce, argue, and treat your relationship as a topic rather than a life. There are also people who are trying. Marcus moved your schedule and helped protect your office. Dr. Shah made it clear your personal life doesn't make you unethical. Your mother wants to meet Pou and Laura properly. Your friends are hurt, but still reaching out. Team Canada apologized. The post came down. The worst comments are being moderated. Pou and Laura’s teammates are confused, but they're learning to hold that confusion without making it your burden to solve. And inside your house, something has shifted. Not everything. Enough. Privacy is no longer a place where all three of you hide separately.
It's a choice you will have to keep making together, with more honesty than before. Visibility is no longer a door that can only open through accident or disaster. It's something you can approach slowly, with your hands held and your boundaries named. You don't have to decide tonight whether to make a statement. You don't have to decide tonight who gets told next. You don't have to decide tonight whether pregnancy is something you want, whether carrying would feel like choice or sacrifice, whether motherhood will come through birth, adoption, or some path you haven't found yet. Tonight, you only have to know this: You won't be the secret surrogate. You won't be the third wheel in your own family. You won't be managed into silence by people who love you but are afraid. You won't have to carry privacy alone.
Later, in bed, Arlo wedges himself at your feet even though he has a perfectly good dog bed two rooms away. Laura curls against your side. Pou lies facing you, one hand resting between you on the mattress, palm open. This time, you take it without hesitation. No cameras. No comments. No captions. Just the three of you in the dark, breathing through the end of a terrible, important day.
“I don’t want to go back,” you whisper. Pou’s hand tightens around yours.
“Then we don’t.” Laura presses a kiss to your shoulder. “We go forward.”
You close your eyes. Forward is still scary. Forward is still uncertain. Forward will have lawyers, family conversations, team boundaries, and probably more awkward questions than any of you know what to do with. But forward also has this. Warmth. Hands. Arlo snoring at your feet. The women you love on either side of you, no longer pretending that fear belongs to only one person.
“All three of us?” you ask, though you already know the answer.
“All three of us,” Pou says.
“All three of us,” Laura repeats.
For a while, nobody moves. The room stays quiet except for the hum of the fan and Arlo’s heavy breathing from the end of the bed. Laura’s fingers trace slow, absent patterns over your ribs, and Pou’s thumb moves across your palm, steady and grounding. It should feel like the end of the day. Instead, it feels like the first moment all day that belongs only to you all. You turn toward Laura first, because she's closest, because her mouth is already near your shoulder, because her softness has been holding you together in pieces since morning. She looks up at you, questioning, and you answer by kissing her. Her hand stills against your side. Then she melts into it. The kiss is unhurried, but it is not only gentle. There is need there too, tucked beneath the tenderness. Laura’s hand slides to your waist, pulling you closer until your body fits against hers in the familiar way it always does, like coming home through a door you know in the dark. Behind you, Pou shifts closer.
You feel her before she speaks. The warmth of her at your back. The press of her hand against your hip. The careful pause as she waits for you to decide whether you want more touch or less of it. You reach back for her. Pou exhales, low and relieved, and her arm settles around you. Her mouth brushes the back of your neck, a barely there kiss that sends a shiver through you. Laura notices. Of course she does. Her smile curves against your mouth. “Okay?”
You nod. “Yeah.”
Pou’s voice is quiet near your ear. “Tell us if anything feels like too much.”
“I will.”
Laura kisses you again, deeper this time, and Pou’s hand spreads warm over your stomach, holding you between them without trapping you. It's careful and intimate and completely yours. Not hidden because it's shameful. Private because privacy can still be a gift when you choose it. Your breath catches when Laura’s fingers slip beneath the hem of your shirt, just resting against your skin. Pou’s mouth moves from the back of your neck to your shoulder, soft and patient. Neither of them rushes you. Neither of them tries to make the day easier than it was. They just love you. Slowly. Fully. In the dark, where no one can misunderstand the shape of it. Arlo lets out a dramatic groan from the foot of the bed. All three of you freeze.
Then Laura starts laughing against your collarbone, quiet and helpless, and Pou drops her forehead to your shoulder with a muttered, “Arlo, please.” You laugh too, the sound breaking through the last hard shell around your chest.
“Out,” Laura says, still laughing. Arlo thumps his tail.
“Out, sir,” Pou repeats, more firmly. He huffs like he is being exiled unjustly, then hops down from the bed and pads to his dog bed in the corner with great offense. The three of you lie still for a second. Then Laura looks at you.
“Still okay?” You look from her to Pou, at their faces in the dim light, worried and wanting and waiting for you.
“Yes,” you say. “Still okay.”
Pou’s hand tightens at your waist. Laura’s lips find yours again. This time, there is no interruption. The rest of the night unfolds slowly, in whispered check-ins and familiar hands, in laughter softened by kisses, in the careful removal of the day’s fear one touch at a time. The world has taken enough from you already. This, you decide, it doesn't get. This stays here. In your room. In your bed. In the quiet between the three of you, where love doesn't need to be explained to be real. And when the lights finally go out, you're held on both sides, warm and breathless and safe. Tomorrow, the world will still have questions. Tonight, nobody gets to ask them.
