Before He Sees Me

A few weeks into something new, even the smallest conversations can feel like confession

In the half-light of the early morning, I catch my reflection in the mirror.

My skin is a constellation of violet and wine-colored blooms, the kind that pulse faintly when I breathe. They’re tender reminders of last night's dungeon play—an ache I asked for, a surrender I welcomed. I trace one with my fingertip and wonder what story it will tell when he sees it.

It’s not jealousy I ever feel with him. It’s something softer, harder to name—an ache that lives in the space before trust is fully grown. Isaac and I have only been seeing each other for a few weeks. We’re still building our attachment, still circling one another like planets finding their rhythm.

He’s new to polyamory, at least by name. But casual intimacy isn’t new to him. He floats through friendships that blur into benefits, connections that hum with easy pleasure. It’s beautiful, in a way—his openness, his comfort in lightness. And yet, I can’t help but hope he feels something different with me. I don’t want to just be another body in his constellation. I want to be someone that slows his orbit.

He’s never stepped into the world of BDSM, though—he’s vanilla, curious but cautious. And I would never want to push that world onto him.

But last night, I met with a new play partner—my first since Isaac and I started dating. It was intense and cathartic, and my body carries the evidence like a map of everything I allowed myself to feel.

Now I’m about to see him, and I find myself wondering how he’ll react.

Will he tease me?

Will he flinch?

Or will he simply not care?

That last one—his indifference—feels like the most dangerous possibility of all.

Because it’s not jealousy I want from him, not even protectiveness.

It’s presence.

I want to feel seen—to know that the energy between us isn’t casual or interchangeable. Sometimes I catch myself asking silently, Does he like me, or am I just another name on the roster?

It’s funny, how even the most securely attached polyamorous hearts can feel that way. With my husband, I never doubt my place. We’ve chosen each other over and over again. But Isaac and I haven’t yet had the chance to choose. We’re still suspended in the delicious uncertainty of what might be.

So I text him before I leave.

I should warn you, I write. My body’s a little marked up from a scene last night. Nothing serious, but I didn’t want it to surprise you.

And then I wait.

Because marks are complicated things. To someone new to non-monogamy, they can look like someone else’s claim. They can stir emotions that have nothing to do with ownership and everything to do with belonging.

I told him that if it ever made him uncomfortable, I’d stop doing rough scenes while we’re seeing each other—not because he asked me to, but because I like him enough to protect his sense of safety with me. I want him to know that even my wildness can be gentle.

Maybe what I want isn’t his jealousy at all—it’s his presence.

I want him to look at me, bruised and unhidden, and still see something worth touching.