Page 38 of Unclench Me Softly

Jax moans on purpose.

Asher giggles and then moans accidentally.

Miles refuses to make a sound but grits his teeth like I know he’s clenching more than his ego.

Seb releases another breath that sounds like he’s exorcising a whole childhood wound.

Jonah sighs, slow and deep, and I have to turn around to avoid openly fanning myself with my own mat.

We move through three more poses, fists of fire, lion’s breath, pigeon of grief, and by the time I get them into seated twist and tell them to “punch the air while naming what hurt them,” I am shaking with both laughter and lust.

Jax punches and yells, “My dad!”

Asher whispers, “My sixth grade gym teacher.”

Miles doesn’t punch. He just says, “This retreat,” under his breath and cracks his neck like that was his exorcism.

Seb mutters, “Myself.”

Jonah doesn’t punch. He lifts his fist. Holds it. Closes his eyes. Then says quietly, “Trust.”

It lands like a thunderclap.

I almost cancel the rest of the night and lie face down in the lavender field for the rest of my life.

But I can’t. Because this is only phase one.

I have to lead these sweaty, cursed, gorgeously damaged men into a group eucalyptus steam purge now.

And I don’t know what’s going to come out of that tent... but I have a feeling it won’t be sanity.

The steam dome is glowing like the inside of a jungle god’s mouth. The scent of eucalyptus clings to the air like judgment, thick and holy and a little bit medicinal in the way herbal things always are when you’re trying to pretend they’re not just there to make you feel something. Eucalyptus is like emotional napalm. Let it burn, baby

I sit at the edge of the circle, wrapped in a thin white towel that is sticking to parts of me I haven’t spiritually processed in years. My hair is pulled up in a messy topknot that feels like a war flag. I’m sweating, vibrating, unraveling slowly like some ceremonial cinnamon bun in a spa for the emotionally overpowered.

The men are seated in a rough circle around me.

Jax, shirtless and glistening like some kind of forbidden mountain spring. He’s sprawled with his legs wide and arms resting on his knees like he’s waiting to be worshipped or arrested, and I don’t know which would be worse.

Asher, wide-eyed and very pink, clearly struggling to regulate his temperature, his hydration, and his inner monologue. His towel is perfectly arranged. He looks like he’s trying not to cry or pass out. Possibly both.

Seb, silent, upright, eyes closed, the steam rolling over his skin like he’s made of wood and storm clouds and possibly regret carved into human form.

Miles, unimpressed by heat, discomfort, or the concept of spiritual detox. His hair is slicked back, his jaw tight, his gaze unreadable. He is the definition of “sweating with dignity.”

And Jonah.

Jonah is across from me, leaning back slightly, arms braced behind him, every inch of him glistening in that golden, too-damned-sure-of-himself way. His chest rises slow and even, his eyes half-lidded, like he’s in no rush to get anywhere because everything he wants is already here.

I am dying.

Sweating and dying and possibly aroused enough to ruin this towel’s spiritual alignment.

“Welcome,” I say, voice soft, throat dry. “This is the final phase of today’s Unclenching Journey.”

No one speaks.

They are too steamed to resist.

---