Page 71 of Unclench Me Softly

The shift in temperature. The awareness at the base of my spine. That uncanny sense that someone just looked directly at your soul and found it wanting in a way that makes you want to beg them to do it again.

He steps into the space like the shadows let him go reluctantly.

No fanfare. No sound.

Just Jonah. Cool, composed, and holding something small in his hand.

He doesn’t come straight to me. He walks the circle. Slow. Methodical. Like he’s testing the air for intention.

Then he stops in front of me. Looks down. Not at the robe. Not at my hands, still clutching Jax’s sharp offering.

At my eyes.

Like he knows I’m still buzzing from whatever the hell Jax just did to my nervous system, and that he wants to pull me out of it without ever touching me.

“This is for you,” he says simply. He places the object in my palm.

It’s a feather. Long. Pale gray. Unusually clean.

I frown. “You found this in the woods?”

He nods. “Wedged between stones. It wasn’t lying out in the open. It was caught. Snagged on something. Held tight.”

I turn it slowly in my hand.

It’s delicate, but not frail. Sturdy spine. Smooth texture. No fraying. Almost unnaturally intact.

“And this… made you think of stillness?” I ask.

He crouches in front of me then. Low. Calm. His voice drops. “It made me think of you.”

My stomach flips so hard it might need a seatbelt.

“It was fighting to get free,” he says, gaze locked on mine. “But it wasn’t torn. It was just held. Waiting.”

I can’t breathe. Not properly.

He leans forward slightly, not touching, but closer than comfort. “And I thought, maybe you’ve been caught like that. Between places. Purposes. Personas.” His eyes don’t waver. “But you’re not fragile. And you’re not broken. You’re just not where you’re supposed to fly from yet.”

I blink too hard.

His voice softens, and that’s the part that kills me, the gentleness under the precision. “And I thought… maybe you need someone to see that.”

I open my mouth to speak. I have no idea what I was going to say.

He reaches out, finally, finally, and lifts the end of the feather with two fingers. Light. Barely touching my skin. “You’re not stuck, Bliss. You’re just not done becoming.”

He drops it gently back into my lap, rises, and walks away without another word.

I sit there, robe tight, breath shallow, a feather of existential awakening in my hand and the disturbing certainty that Jonah Vale just dissected my soul and left it neatly folded on a sacred pillow.

And now I have to keep pretending I’m in charge.

By the time Miles walks in, I’ve stopped pretending I’m emotionally stable.

I’m sitting cross-legged in my sacred Womb Cloak™, a pinecone of feelings, a bruising stone, a weaponized stick, and a soul-baring feather arranged in a semicircle in front of me like some kind of emotional shrine to my impending breakdown.

He enters like he’s early for a meeting. Calm. Controlled. Carrying something in one hand and a mug in the other.

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