Page 77 of Unclench Me Softly

He exhales like I just anointed him with cosmic truth and the last remaining drop of his mother’s unconditional love.

One by one, I go around.

Miles blinks when I touch him, but doesn’t flinch. “Fascinating,” he murmurs. “Feels warm. Possibly psychosomatic.”

Jonah closes his eyes just before I reach him, and when I touch the spot between his brows, he whispers, “Don’t forget your own.”

I nearly pass out.

Seb closes his eyes. Doesn’t speak. But the room feels heavier after. Like something in him gave permission.

Jax grins and lowers his head slowly. “Be gentle,” he says. “I’m spiritually sensitive.”

I press the oil to his third eye.

He moans, just slightly.

It is not helpful.

I return to the center. Bowl in hand. Shaking.

They are all still, grounded, and intently watching me.

I have absolutely no idea what I’ve done.

Then Asher whispers, “Should we chant?”

I black out internally. I clear my throat, still holding the bowl like it’s the Holy Grail of Oh Shit What Have I Done.

“Okay,” I say brightly, too brightly. “That concludes the official Anointing of the Third Eye With Intention Oil™. Thank you all for surrendering your foreheads.”

I start to back toward the altar table, ready to call this done and crawl into my robe like it’s a womb of denial.

But Jax, still lounging like temptation incarnate on his cushion, lifts a hand. “Shouldn’t we close the circle with something more… connected?”

I blink. “Connected how?”

He grins. “Intention sharing. One word. From each of us. About Bliss.”

I feel all the blood drain from my extremities. “I…”

Asher gasps. “Oh! Like a sacred circle of gratitude! I love that.”

Miles nods thoughtfully. “It does feel... ceremonially incomplete.”

Jonah just gives me a long, unreadable look.

I hate how much I love it.

Jax, already moving, dips his fingers back into the oil.

I freeze. “Where are you?”

“Not your forehead this time,” he murmurs. He reaches out, slow and sure, presses his hand to my thigh, just above the knee, under the robe, where it’s definitely not ceremonial, and draws a symbol I’m certain is neither sacred nor safe.

His fingers move slow, circling up toward the hem, the oil slick and warm, his voice low as he says, “My word is want.”

I nearly combust.

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