Page 132 of Unclench Me Softly

“I’ll give you my deposit,” he says. “I just... I need another week. Or month. Maybe a year. You got lifetime options?”

Seb shrugs. “My cub’s not wild enough yet. He started making a nest with moss and started crying instead. It was a whole thing.”

Miles adjusts his lynx. “Stillness issues. Significant ones. Also I have data I need to collect on... you. This place. Us. I need... more time.”

Jonah crosses his arms. “My king’s not done burning. Might need to do round two. With s’mores.”

Asher lifts his pillow. “My seed needs more tending,” he says, somehow keeping a straight face. “And possibly cuddles. And emotional lube. Just... softness, on a rotation.”

I laugh so hard I cry again.

And they all move closer.

Close enough to be a circle without it being a ritual.

Close enough that I can’t breathe without inhaling them.

Then Jax looks at me, mischief already twitching at the corner of his mouth. “So?” he says, tilting his head like he’s offering a dare instead of a question. “What kind of deposit you need for a lifetime membership?”

I look at them, all of them.

My five disasters.

My five miracles.

My five acts of accidental sacred chaos.

And somehow, even with my heart breaking and my hands shaking, the words come out easy. “Just… don’t go,” I whisper.

There’s a beat of silence, then Jonah says, steady and certain, “None of us were planning to.”

Seb grunts in that way that means agreement, and love, and also maybe a mild threat, and adds, “Not going. Try to make me.”

Asher flashes a crooked, heart-ruining smile and says, “Pretty sure the itinerary says ‘spiritual squatting rights indefinitely.’ I checked.”

Jax cracks his knuckles, grins like a man who’s only half-joking, and adds, “Anyone tries to make us leave, I’ll show you why I have court-ordered anger management. But, you know… softly. Spiritually unclenched.”

Miles, who’s been quiet, just lifts his mug like a solemn toast and says, deadpan, “I’ve already adjusted my Google calendar to reflect permanent emotional residency.”

I try, gods, I really do, to hold it together. To keep my spine straight and my robe dignified and my emotions politely folded like ceremonial napkins at a sacred brunch.

Because I’m the leader.

The guide.

The emotional wrangler of this roaming herd of spiritually rewilded men.

But then Seb tosses his lynx pillow from one hand to the other like he’s checking its weight for potential defense purposes, and Asher winks at me like we share some catastrophic glitter-coated secret, and Jax loudly volunteers to build an effigy of anyone who suggests checking out early, and Jonah gives me this look, this steady, breaking-open look, and Miles murmurs something about recalibrating his entire emotional system around “current Bliss occupancy rates”...

That’s the final tug on the frayed little thread holding me together.

I dissolve. Laughing. Crying. Launching myself into the center of them with all the grace of a half-feral fairy goat wearing a ceremonial robe two sizes too big.

They catch me, obviously.

They always would have.

All arms and warmth and tangled promises, pulling me into the center like I’m something worth keeping sacred.

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