Page 115 of Unclench Me Softly

He nods. Too quickly. “Seb made the fire. Jonah did the coffee. Jax was on egg duty, but I supervised. Miles made an outline. And I might’ve created a short itinerary.”

He hands me a piece of paper with color-coded blocks, bullet points, and a header that reads:

The Sixth Pillar™: Shared Masculine Uplift Through Acts of Communal Nourishment and Emotional Logistics

(subtitled: We Give Back Now, Please Rest, You Soft-Tyrant of Our Hearts)

There are only two events listed:

Sacred Brunch of Intuitive Pancake Sharing™

The Karmic Dishwashing of Accountability™

“We thought this could be the day of service,” Asher says softly. “To you.”

I stare at the itinerary. At the tray. At his hopeful face, and something in my chest does a little cartwheel before completely collapsing.

“You built a sixth pillar?” I whisper.

“We even argued over the name,” he says, dead serious. “Jax wanted to call it ‘Give Her a Damn Break.’ Miles insisted on the word ‘communal.’ Jonah just wanted to burn something again.”

I put a hand over my heart. Because of course I’m crying into my pancakes now.

Before I’ve finished emotionally crying into the first flower-adorned pancake, the flap opens again and Jax strolls in like he’s arriving for a funeral he intends to sexually disrupt.

He’s wearing a black robe.

It’s hanging open.

Of course.

His abs are glistening like he rolled in ceremonial coconut oil and intention. He carries a plate of fresh pancakes in one hand and a bottle of maple syrup in the other, like offerings for a slightly depraved goddess.

“Good morning, sacred source of our nourishment,” he says, bowing low enough that I nearly lose consciousness. “May I welcome you to the Sixth Pillar™ Brunch Ritual of Intuitive Pancake Sharing and Sensory Rebirth.”

I blink at him, then at Asher, who is now looking extremely proud of himself and also slightly afraid.

Jax sets the plate down on the small altar-table like he’s placing relics before a queen who may or may not be menstruating and in charge of his fate. Then he straightens., claps his hands together, and begins to speak.

“Brothers, fellow seekers of the softened divine,” he intones, loud and theatrical, “We gather this morning in humble gratitude, having risen early, some of us with morning wood and spiritual purpose, to engage in the ancient masculine rite of the pancake.”

Asher snorts into his tea. I am frozen in place, clutching a bite of syrup-drenched carb like it might anchor me to reality.

Jax paces slowly in front of the altar, barefoot, half-naked, clearly improvising with the same confidence I use to invent entire healing rituals out of expired essential oils and trauma.

“In this circle of gluten and grace,” he continues, “We blend dry and wet, heat and air, fluff and firmness. We flip. We fail. We make again.”

“Jesus Christ,” I whisper.

“But always,” Jax says, raising the syrup bottle like a chalice, “We serve with intention. With open hearts. With hot buttered desire.”

I nearly choke.

“May these cakes, forged in fire and spatula, be a sacred offering of masculine devotion. May they open your clit chakra. May they realign your brunch aura. May they make you feel,” he pauses dramatically, “Held.”

There’s a silence that feels strangely spiritual.

Then Asher claps softly.

---