Page 119 of Unclench Me Softly

I pause just outside, towel clutched in one hand, heart already whispering things my brain isn’t ready to hear.

Because I hear laughter, low, deep, and male, the rhythmic splash of water against tile, and the faint clatter of what I’m nearly certain is a ceramic plate.

I lean in, just enough to see.

And then I freeze.

Because inside, all five of them are there.

Shirtless, barefoot, gloriously, unapologetically soapy, and washing dishes in the communal shower.

There’s a portable rack on one end, someone’s playing forest flute music from a Bluetooth speaker, and I don’t know whether to cry, scream, or climb a wall like a raccoon possessed by yearning.

I do not move.

I cannot move.

Because what I’m looking at isn’t just unexpected, it’s a spiritual ambush in the form of wet forearms and sudsy teamwork.

I did not plan a group dishwashing kink event. That wasn’t on the itinerary. There is no seventh pillar for “steam-based service submission.” And yet here they are. My five sacred disasters, washing dishes in a tiled dome of humid temptation.

Jonah is barefoot and brooding, elbow-deep in suds, wiping down a bowl like it confessed betrayal.

Seb is methodically rinsing spoons with the intensity of a man repenting for the emotional damage he did in his twenties.

Miles is categorizing the silverware into functional subsets.

Asher is singing something soft and folky under his breath like he’s scoring the entire event with acoustic vulnerability.

And Jax is shirtless, wet, and holding a sponge like it’s a prophecy.

I should leave.

I should say something wise and in control and fully clothed.

But instead, I just… stare open-mouthed, paralyzed, and slightly turned on by the domestic servitude unfolding in front of me like a live-action erotic ritual titled “Men Who’ve Grown Emotionally and Now Scrub with Intention.”

And then Jax sees me and grins. “There she is,” he says, sponge dripping from one hand. “The last dish.”

I try to back away, but Asher is already waving me in, beaming like a woodland nymph on his third mimosa.

“Come on, Bliss,” he calls. “We saved you the ceremonial rinse.”

“There is no ceremonial rinse,” I whisper to myself, absolutely lying.

But then Jonah turns and says, completely deadpan, “Every high priestess deserves to be washed by her disciples at least once.”

And I make a sound. I don’t know what kind. It echoes.

Before I can retreat into the safety of dry land and plausible deniability, Seb is already walking toward me, hands damp, eyes soft, and expression unreadable.

He stops just close enough that I can feel the warmth coming off his skin, then reaches for the towel I’ve half-forgotten I’m holding.

And I let him take it.

Because I’ve clearly lost control.

Because this is my life now.

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