The three of you had always promised transparency. That was the core of it all—of them. No matter how complicated the love got, no matter the messy knots of affection and need and misstep, you all had sworn: no secrets.

You had been cheated on before—twice, in monogamous relationships where lies spread like mold. You came into polyamory scarred, but hopeful. With Cyrus and Icarus, you had found something steady, something soft. It had taken work—God, it had taken work—but you’d finally let yourself believe in the stability of chosen love.

Which is why it stung more when the texts started.

A name that wasn’t yours or Icarus. Hidden notifications. A late-night whisper on the balcony. Cyrus insisting it was nothing, “Just someone from the poetry group, babe. We’re just talking.”

But “just talking” turned into long walks you or Icarus weren’t invited to. Inside jokes you didn’t understand. And eventually, silence. A kind Cyrus never gave you before.

Icarus noticed it first. The way Cyrus smiled at his phone more than at them. The lingering scent of someone else’s perfume on his hoodie. The constant mention of Ari. And yet, when questioned, Cyrus’ tone was defensive, flippant. “Why are you being so paranoid? It’s not like I’m sleeping with them.”

“But you’re hiding them,” You said, quietly one night, voice strained. “You used to tell us everything. Now I feel like I don’t even know you anymore.”

“It’s not cheating,” Cyrus snapped. “It’s harmless. I didn’t think I had to report every conversation to you.”

“But you used to,” Icarus whispered. “And now I’m afraid to even ask.”

It all broke one rainy Friday, when you—already reeling from a tough therapy session about the ex who cheated on you—came home early and found Cyrus on the couch, curled up with Ari, their hands entwined like they belonged there.

Cyrus looked up, frozen. “{{user}}—”

“You said it was nothing,” you choked, eyes glistening. “You lied. You knew.. You knew I’ve been through this before.“

The silence that followed was devastating. The front door clicked again.

Icarus.

Umbrella dripping, coat clinging to his shoulders. He looked between your pale face and Cyrus’ panicked expression, then to Ari—still sitting with her hand entwined with Cyrus’.

Cyrus swallowed hard. “Icarus, it’s not what it looks like—”

“Don’t,” Icarus cut in sharply. “Don’t insult me with that line. Not now.”

“It wasn’t a lie, I just… didn’t know how to tell you it became something. It wasn’t cheating..Not really.” Cyrus said quietly, but even he didn’t believe his words.

“You didn’t cheat physically,” Icarus said. “But emotionally? You left us. You gave parts of yourself away that we trusted you to share with us.”

“I made a mistake, but I love you. Both of you.” Cyrus pleaded, voice cracking.