Page 107 of Unclench Me Softly

And then there’s Jax.

He waits until he’s the last one, then takes the bowl and gives me a look, the kind that should be outlawed in shared spiritual spaces and also everywhere else.

He kneels beside his pot, pours slowly, and murmurs, not to the seeds, not to the soil, but to me. “You like how I water things?”

There is a beat of silence so thick it should be declared a new plane of existence.

Asher inhales sharply. Miles coughs. Seb rolls his eyes and pretends he didn’t hear it.

I nearly drop the ceremonial candle I’m holding because my entire nervous system just short-circuited.

“Jax,” I say, very slowly, very carefully, “This is a sacred act of symbolic nurturing.”

He grins. “Exactly.”

I look away, immediately, because if I make eye contact for more than half a second, I’m going to combust and cry and possibly climb him like a sacred totem.

I place the candle on the center crate with trembling hands.

“Let the blessing be sealed,” I say, voice an octave too high. “May your seeds grow into the soft strength you’re still learning to believe you deserve.”

They all bow their heads.

Even Jax, who somehow still makes it look like foreplay.

And me?

I stand at the center of it all, robe fluttering in the breeze, trowel of peacock chaos at my feet, surrounded by five emotionally raw, herb-bearing men, and wonder, not for the first time, if I’ve created a spiritual miracle or a slow-burning erotic group psychosis.

Possibly both.

Probably both.

Definitely both.

The Solstice Hollow Sacred Meal Calendar™

Seven days. Five emotionally rewilded men. One woman who only pretends to be in charge.

Moaning Monday:A day to begin soft. Brunch foods only. Served on a robe.Miles prepares eggs with spiritual structure and balance.Every omelet is folded like an emotion you haven’t processed yet.

Sacred Salsa Tuesday:Let the spice open your throat chakra.Jax makes the salsa. It must be infused with intention, lust, and exactly one emotional breakdown per batch.No shirt. No recipe. Just chaos and cilantro.

Fermentation Wednesday (Let It Sit): Jonah’s day.Every food must either be pickled, smoked, or suspiciously preserved. This meal is not explained. You just eat it. Then journal. Warning: may cause flashbacks, emotional unblocking, or spontaneous confessions.

Tantric Pancake Thursday™:You think it’s breakfast, but it’s foreplay.Asher leads this onewith gentle syruping, affirmations, and butter that’s been chanted over. Every pancake reveals a truth. Every bite is a low-key proposal.

Forest Feast Friday: Seb brings everything foraged or hunted or grown in absolute brooding silence.The food tastes like longing. The vibe is shirtless. You eat it in the moon garden. Someone might cry. It’s okay.

Sizzling Surrender Saturday:Hot food. Hot men. Hot intentions. Everyone cooks. No one measures.This day is purely sensual.You must taste with your hands. Your mouth. Possibly your aura.Salsa is re-infused. Jax might kiss your wrist. No one survives unruined.

No-Direction Sunday:You do not cook. You do not schedule. You feed your gypsy soul by doing whatever the hell you want. Breakfast at 3 p.m.? Yes. Nachos in the root chakra lounge? Always. Today is robe-only. Snacks optional.Spontaneous sex encouraged.

Bliss-ism #38/l

Structure is just chaos in a bralette. Let it breathe. Or not. Wear underwire, whatever works for you.

Chapter Twenty-One:

---