Page 104 of Unclench Me Softly

He catches my wrist, just briefly, thumb brushing the inside like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything. “I like watching you when you’re trying to stay focused,” he says. “It’s almost sacred.”

And then he lets go and walks away, whistling softly, like he didn’t just turn my third chakra into a puddle of raw need and trail mix.

The others arrive just as I’m placing the final bowl of sacred basil seeds at the center of the planting altar, which is really just an old wine crate draped in velvet, but it has vibe, and that’s all that matters.

They file in one by one, sunlight catching on collarbones and forearms and the kind of post-breathwork glow that makes me question every life choice I’ve ever made. Even Miles looks a little flushed, which is probably the closest he gets to pre-orgasmic.

Asher smiles at me like I’m a blessing he’s still trying to earn. Seb nods once, calm and steady. Jonah tilts his head like he’s trying to read my thoughts and might not like the ending. And Jax walks in eating a banana, slowly, on purpose.

I ignore him with the force of will it usually takes to hold a moon ritual during an eclipse and gesture toward the pots.

“Welcome to the final ceremonial activity of Pillar Five,” I announce, lifting my chin. “The Seed Planting Ritual of Receptive Masculine Intention.”

There’s a beat of silence, then Jax says, “Wow. That sounds like an HR violation and a tantric porno at the same time.”

I inhale deeply through my nose and continue.

“This is a sacred act,” I say, pacing slowly along the arc of waiting pots like some kind of fertility priestess with boundary issues. “A moment of rooted intention. Of choosing presence. Of placing something small and potent into the soil of becoming.”

“Asher’s already doing that emotionally,” Miles murmurs, which earns him a gentle elbow from Asher and a grin from Jax.

I don’t stop.

“What you plant in the soil of surrender will rise with the rain of intention,” I declare, spreading my arms like I’m conjuring clouds from the power of metaphor alone.

There’s a snort. Possibly from Jonah. Possibly from me.

“This is about masculine nourishment,” I say louder, cutting through the laughter. “About choosing to plant something rather than destroy it. To offer your energy with care and presence. To soften in the face of stillness.”

Jax raises his hand like a very naughty schoolboy.

“Yes?” I ask, already regretting it.

“Are we… planting with our hands, or are we supposed to use the tool of divine penetration?” he asks.

The group loses it.

I close my eyes for one long, intentional breath. “And yes,” I say calmly, “Before anyone asks, again, the metaphor is biological. But it’s not sexual. It’s symbolic. Now grab your herb pot and breathe into your root chakra.”

The men are seated with their pots before them like reluctant demigods preparing to summon new versions of themselves through dirt and metaphor. I reach for the carved wooden tray beside me, lined with tiny linen pouches, each containing seeds for herbs and wildflowers.

“Now,” I say, drawing myself up to full sacred height, “You must each choose the plant that best reflects your rebirthed intention. Not who you’ve been, but who you’re becoming.”

Jax raises an eyebrow. “So, like… my inner basil?”

I exhale slowly through the nose. “More like the archetypal essence of your soul’s gentle masculinity, but sure. Basil if you must.”

They shift, all of them eyeing the options like I’ve just asked them to define their emotional legacy in potted herb form.

Asher, of course, reaches first. He picks up a pouch labeled “Chamomile.”

“It’s calming,” he says, glancing at me. “And soft. But still strong. I don’t know. It just felt right.”

I blink, because of course it did. Because Asher is literally becoming tea.

Miles takes longer. He frowns at each pouch like he’s conducting a botanical background check.

“I’ll take the thyme,” he says finally. “It represents patience. Endurance. Perseverance in the face of unpredictable conditions.”

---