Page 117 of Unclench Me Softly

And me?

I am sitting in the middle of my own dome, half-wrapped in a robe, full of pancake and praise, absolutely on the verge of becoming spiritually overstimulated by carbs and connection.

By the time I swallow the fifth sacred bite, I am not sure if I’m full or just high on intentionality.

Because every one of them is still watching me like they’ve each just offered a part of their soul via pancake, and I ate it. Willingly. With eye contact.

The energy has shifted again.

It’s no longer brunch.

It’s ritual.

It’s foreplay.

It’s emotional edging via breakfast food.

And then Jax picks up another bite. Doesn’t feed it to me. Just drizzles maple syrup over it, thick and slow, and catches a spill with his finger, which he licks off. With eye contact that feels like a promise and a threat.

“We could just…” he says, voice a low suggestion, “Anoint you.”

I blink. “Anoint… me?”

He dips a finger into the syrup again and traces a small, sticky spiral just below my collarbone, then leans in and licks it clean like it’s part of the ceremony. And maybe it is now. Maybe everything is.

“For spiritual sweetness retention,” he says.

Miles sighs but doesn’t stop him. Just pours me more tea and mutters something about needing to “track the caloric impact of tantric sugar rituals.”

Seb lifts the bowl of honey. Raises an eyebrow. Doesn’t ask.

“No,” I say too quickly. “We are not starting a dessert-based devotion circle.”

“Too late,” Jonah rumbles, already smearing a thumbful of jam across my wrist and licking it away like a wolf sampling holy fruit.

“This is a lot,” I whisper, very faintly, very not convincingly.

And then, Toad walks in, holding a small box. He stops and looks around the room.

Jax is licking syrup off my shoulder. Miles is casually pouring tea while Jonah just growled. Seb is holding a spoon like he’s considering where best to apply it. Asher is beaming like this is the best day of his entire spiritually confused life.

Toad squints. “I don’t want to know,” he mutters. “But Asher told me to bring this in when things were… settling.”

I make a strange noise that sounds like guilt and maple panic.

Toad sets the box on the altar and backs out slowly like he’s witnessed some kind of cult mating ritual and is going to need another raise.

Asher bounces forward, actually bounces, opens the box with a kind of excited reverence, and pulls out six delicate pieces of carved wood on dark woven cords.

Each charm is a slightly curved geometric shape, hexagon-adjacent, polished smooth, lightly scented with sandalwood.

“They’re puzzle charms,” Asher says proudly. “Custom. Each piece fits with the others, and yours is the center that holds the pattern. You wear it… if you want. No pressure. I just thought…” His voice trails off.

He’s holding mine out now, and it’s… beautiful. Slightly larger than the others. Smooth. Inlaid with a spiral carved so finely I can feel it call to something in my chest.

I take it with both hands. My fingers are still sticky.

“You made us cult jewelry,” I whisper, stunned.

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