Page 109 of Unclench Me Softly

I assume it’s the wind. Or guilt, personified. Maybe one of the men has come back to whisper something unspeakably profound about photosynthesis and feelings. Again.

But then I catch a scent.

Not incense. Not desperation. Not the lingering aftermath of too many men whispering their intentions into dirt. Something warm, subtle, and familiar.

Cinnamon. And roasted almonds. And something that smells suspiciously like dark chocolate and emotional responsibility.

And when I finally glance up, it’s Miles, poised and terrifyingly calm, moving with the kind of collected presence that makes me immediately want to knock over a salt lamp just to balance the energy.

He doesn’t speak at first.

He just crosses the space and sets a small ceramic plate on the rug beside me with the precision of someone who alphabetizes his spice rack and alphabetically ranked his emotional coping mechanisms before dinner.

I look at the plate.

Two small protein balls. A delicate arrangement of dried fruit. And a square of something rich and chocolatey, tucked at a perfect diagonal.

“Are you planning,” he asks without judgment, “Or spiraling?”

I pick up the notebook from my lap and glance at the page.

“I’m divinely improvising,” I reply. “With a strong undercurrent of panic and trail mix.”

He nods once, as though that answer is entirely expected.

Then he sits across from me, legs folded neatly, back straight, hands resting gently on his knees like he’s about to lead me in guided meditation or an academic takedown of my inner chaos.

“You’re out of pillars,” he says. “But still inside the framework. Seven days. Five pillars.”

I glance down at my notes. A doodle of a lavender labyrinth stares back at me like it knows too much.

“I didn’t expect the rewilding to escalate this quickly,” I say. “Now I’m inventing rituals on the fly and hoping no one notices.”

He gestures toward the chocolate. “Eat something before you redesign the sacred masculine around a scavenger hunt.”

I do.

It melts softly on my tongue, bittersweet and somehow stabilizing.

He watches me like he’s not watching me, which is worse, and I realize, belatedly, terribly, that I’ve been holding my breath since he walked in.

“So it’s unstructured now,” he says. Not as a question.

I nod. “Radically unstructured. Like... interpretive dance but with spiritual consequences.”

He glances at the notebook. Tilts his head. Reads upside down. “‘Lavender Labyrinth Freeze Tag,’” he murmurs. “That sounds... interpretive.”

“It’s inner child work,” I say, deadpan. “Possibly trauma. Possibly cardio.”

He tilts his head, just slightly, and I see it in his eyes before he says it. The invitation dressed as analysis. “Have you ever considered submitting to structure?”

The air shifts.

Not dramatically. Not with fireworks or lightning. Just a subtle tightening in my chest, a flicker at the base of my spine, a moment so quiet it might be mistaken for stillness if it didn’t hum like a storm in disguise.

“Is that a suggestion?” I ask, and my voice doesn’t sound like mine. It sounds like something softer. Something already yielding.

He doesn’t smile.

---