The Space They Kept

The photo on their profile shows two men pressed shoulder to shoulder, laughing at something off-camera. One dark-haired with sharp cheekbones and a jaw that could cut glass. The other sandy-blond, softer somehow, with a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes.

Connor & Eli, the profile reads. Looking for our third. Not a unicorn hunter situation—we're genuinely poly, genuinely interested, and genuinely tired of explaining ourselves to people who swipe right just to ask how it works.

I swipe right anyway.

The match notification pings at 11:47 PM on a Tuesday, and I tell myself I'm just curious. I've never dated one person successfully, let alone two. But there's something about the way they're looking at each other in that photo—like the person taking it doesn't exist, like they've built a world that only fits the two of them.

Except they're on a dating app. Looking for a third.

Which means maybe the world they've built has room for one more.

The first message comes from Eli. I know because he signs it—Eli here, Connor's terrible at first messages—and it's disarmingly normal. He asks about my day. About the photo of my cat that's buried in my profile. About whether I've ever actually tried the polyamory thing or if I'm just "poly-curious."

Poly-curious, I guess, I type back. I've never really thought about it before. But I saw your profile and something just... clicked.

His response is immediate. That's how it started for us too. Something clicking. We were best friends for years before we realized it was more. And then we realized more could mean... more.

More than two?

More than two. A pause. Then: Is that too weird?

I stare at my phone, my cat purring against my leg, and something warm uncurls in my chest. No, I type. It's not weird at all.

---

The wine bar they suggest is the kind of place I'd never find on my own—tucked behind a bookstore in the arts district, all exposed brick and candles that smell like fig and smoke. I'm fifteen minutes early because I'm pathologically punctual, so I order a glass of something expensive and pretend to read the menu while my heart tries to escape through my throat.

Connor spots me first. He stands from the corner booth, and I realize the photos didn't do him justice. He's taller than I expected, broad-shouldered, with dark eyes that track my approach like he's already cataloging everything about me. His presence fills the space—commanding, intense, the kind of man who walks into a room and makes everyone notice.

"Sage." Not a question. His voice is lower than I imagined, with an edge that makes my stomach flip. "Connor. This is Eli."

Eli slides out of the booth and does some...