Page 116 of Unclench Me Softly

And I? I spiral.

Because this is the moment it hits me fully, I’ve created monsters. Beautiful, shirtless, spiritually unhinged monsters. And they’re feeding me pancakes. With feeling.

While Jax is still mid-monologue about butter as spiritual lube and the moistening of the clit chakra through intentioned carbs, the flap of my dome opens again, and then again, and again, until suddenly all five men are inside.

They’re all holding trays. Actual trays.

Miles with a ceramic teapot and matching cups, Seb with a small bowl of whipped honey and something green I’m afraid to ask about, Jonah balancing a stack of folded napkins and dark berries like he’s offering them to the gods of primal snacking.

They don’t speak.

They move silently, reverently, placing each item around me like I’m a goddess being altar-dressed for sacrifice or maybe something worse, like love.

Before I can ask what in the name of gluten-infused delirium is happening, Jax lifts one hand and speaks with sudden ceremonial gravity.

“Brothers,” he says, gesturing to the tray before me. “Prepare your offering with maple-infused intention.” Then, without breaking eye contact, he says, “Asher. You’re first.”

Asher straightens like he’s just been called to testify in front of the moon. He steps forward, eyes wide but filled with that wild, radiant devotion that always threatens to undo me.

He picks up a knife and fork like holy tools. Cuts one perfect triangle from the spiral-stacked pancake. Dips the edge into syrup with the focus of a man applying balm to a wound that hasn’t even formed yet. Then he lifts it to my mouth.

“This bite,” he says, voice soft but steady, “Feeds your sense of belonging. In this body. In this space. With us.”

I don’t cry. I just open my mouth and let him feed me while something in my chest cracks gently open like the first warm day of spring after a very long winter.

Next is Miles, who steps forward already holding a small steaming cup of tea in both hands. “You’ll cleanse your palate first,” he says, completely serious, “So the offerings can each be fully received.”

I sip.

Miles nods once, then takes the next bite from the plate and adds a small drizzle of the tea to it like he’s constructing a metaphysical pairing. “This one,” he says, holding it out to me, “Feeds your sense of containment. The peace of being held within structure. Without demand. Without collapse.”

The bite is soft and slightly floral. Like surrender, but spiced.

By the time Jonah steps forward, I’m breathless.

He says nothing at first. Just selects a wedge of pancake, presses a dark berry into the syrup-soaked surface, then holds it toward my mouth with a slow, almost reluctant tilt of his wrist.

“This one,” he says, voice low and gruff, “Feeds your sense of danger. Of being seen where you’re sharp. And loved there anyway.”

The bite is tart. It shocks my system, makes my mouth water, makes my spine shiver in a way that is not, strictly speaking, brunch-appropriate.

Seb moves next.

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t ask, just selects a bite, drizzles honey over it with one finger, and holds it out with both hands, like he’s offering something that might vanish if it’s not accepted with reverence.

There are no words. But the look in his eyes tells me everything I didn’t know I needed to hear.

I take the bite with trembling lips, and for a moment, the silence between us feels louder than all the declarations in the world.

And finally, Jax. Of course he waits until last.

He selects the biggest bite, layers of syrup and butter, a little obscene. He doesn’t kneel. He crouches beside me like a temptation that already knows it’s been accepted.

“This bite,” he murmurs, voice thick with amusement and something deeper, “Feeds your sense of fuck around and find out.”

I choke-laugh.

He feeds it to me with syrup dripping down his fingers, and when I lick it off the corner of my lips, his pupils dilate so fast it feels like an eclipse.

---