Page 18 of Unclench Me Softly

Seb is the kind of man who could say five words and ruin your whole life. Or say nothing and still leave you writing poetry about his hands.

I glance at those hands now, calloused, big, veins prominent. Not in a “gym thirst trap” way. In a “I’ve carried firewood through a blizzard and maybe also heartbreak” way.

I need to stop looking at his hands.

I need to stop imagining those hands pulling my dress off in the Moon Dome during a particularly intense “mirror meditation.”

Focus, Bliss.

“This is Dome Three,” I say, stopping at the entrance and opening the flap. “You’ll be staying here. It’s one of our most energetically neutral spaces.”

He looks inside, and nods once.

“I cleared it personally,” I add, because I have no idea why I’m still talking but my mouth doesn’t care. “Saged it. Cleansed the grid. Swept out whatever weird vibes my great-aunt left behind.”

He turns back to me and speaks. One sentence. “You don’t believe in any of this, do you?”

I freeze. Blink.

Every hair on my neck stands up like I’ve been caught naked in a spell circle.

“I what?” I manage.

His gaze is steady. Not cruel. Not mocking. Just... sharp. Perceptive. Deep in that “I see things people don’t say” way that makes me want to both fight him and cry into his flannel.

“You’re selling it,” he says. “Well. But I can see it in your eyes.”

Oh. Oh no.

That’s the moment. That’s the line that wrecks me.

Not because he’s wrong, but because he isn’t. And because the way he says it feels like he’s trying to reach something in me I’ve buried under linen and Instagram wisdom and “chakra detox” marketing copy.

I force a smile. “I believe in... curated transformation,” I say, trying to make it sound breezy.

He steps past me, into the dome. “Whatever you believe in,” he says, “You built something. Doesn’t have to be perfect to be real.”

And then he’s gone inside. Just like that.

No mic drop. No smug smile. Just a casual soul uppercut on the way through the door.

I stand there for a moment, letting my melted ice cream-sticky hand slowly curl into a fist at my side.

Because I was going to finish my Day One speech tonight.

But instead, I might need to scream into a cushion and think about what those hands would feel like on my bare ass.

No.

No, no, no.

I am a sacred leader of a spiritual movement.

And I am not sexually available for men who speak in tragic metaphors and look like their beard holds dark secrets and artisanal jam recipes.

...Probably.

As soon as I hear the click of Seb’s dome zipper sealing behind him, I whip out my phone with the desperation of a woman who just got emotionally pantsed by a walking Appalachian mood board.

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