Page 110 of Unclench Me Softly

He doesn’t look away.

“It’s an invitation,” he says. “One you’re free to refuse. But I think you’ve held space long enough. Maybe it’s time someone gave you edges again.”

I feel my breath catch, not all at once, but in parts, like my lungs are already preparing for something deeper, something slower, something I won’t be in control of.

I should say something clever. Something to deflect. Something to reclaim the upper hand. But all I do is sit there, robe slipping slightly off one shoulder, notebook still open on my lap, and nod.

He doesn’t move closer. He doesn’t push.

He just waits, posture easy, eyes clear, like he’s already built the outline and is patiently waiting for me to fill in the chapters.

And I suddenly, violently want to be written by him.

The air in the dome feels tighter now. Not suffocating, just contained, like it’s been sealed off from the rest of the retreat and whatever strange universe we’ve accidentally built around this circle of rewilded intention pots and sun-drenched vulnerability.

Miles doesn’t move. He waits. His stillness is its own gravity, pulling me toward something I didn’t know I’d been orbiting this whole time.

“If you want this,” he says, voice smooth but unmistakably firm, “We do it on my terms.”

It’s not a question.

It’s not a dare.

It’s a framework.

I nod slowly, and I feel the robe slip further off my shoulder like even the fabric is ready to surrender.

He watches me, eyes unblinking. “Stand,” he says, and it’s not a suggestion.

I rise to my feet like I’m being lifted from within.

“Undress for me,” he says.

The words settle into my chest like warm stone, grounding and sharp all at once.

My hands find the knot at my waist, and I untie it slowly, fingers trembling not with fear but with something heavier. Anticipation. Trust. The dizzy thrill of letting go.

The robe slips open, a flutter of linen and breath.

“All of it,” he says, and his voice doesn’t waver.

So I let it fall. Step out of it. Stand before him fully exposed, arms at my sides, heart pounding in my throat like a sacred drum.

He doesn’t touch me.

He doesn’t even reach for me.

He just looks.

And in the silence between us, I realize he’s not waiting for permission, he’s waiting to give it.

When I take a step toward him, hand lifting instinctively, he speaks again.

“No.” Just that, sharp and low and final.

I freeze.

His gaze travels up my body. “You’ll do what I ask,” he says. “No more. No less. Do you understand?”

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