Page 86 of Unclench Me Softly

I blink. “Can’t do what?”

He gestures in a vague circle. “The letter. The King. The... farewell to performance. I’m not performing. This is just who I am.”

I pause mid-bite. “So... what I’m hearing is that you think you were born optimized?”

He nods. “Yes.”

I swallow my fig and the scream rising behind it. “Sit down, Miles.”

He eyes the cushion like it’s been cursed.

“You are not above the floor,” I say. “No one is above the floor. That’s where the healing lives.”

He sits, barely. Like he’s doing science on it.

I take a deep breath, adjust my robe into its most ceremonial drape, and grab the nearest pen that doesn’t have teeth marks on it. “Alright,” I say, very professionally. “When you were a child, what did you want to be?”

“A theoretical physicist.”

I stare at him. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“Not a cowboy? Not a rock? Not a raccoon with a PhD in emotional damage?” I ask.

He blinks. “No. Just... me. But with more books.”

I press the pen to my lips and consider whether I can legally prescribe chaos. “So you never wanted to be someone bigger than you were?”

He lifts a shoulder. “I’ve never seen the point in pretending.”

“Okay, well that’s terrifying.”

He frowns. “Why?”

“Because I make up a different version of myself depending on the phase of the moon and my access to carbs, Miles.” I tap my pen against the notebook like it’s a wand and I’m about to summon the emotional beast he’s keeping locked in his logic tower. “Close your eyes.”

He doesn’t move.

“I’m serious. We’re going in.”

He sighs, softly, like he’s indulging me and not terrified of what lives in his own frontal lobe, and closes his eyes.

“Picture your inner kingdom. Your masculine domain. What does it look like?” I ask.

“A library.”

“Obviously,” I mutter. “Is it color-coded?”

“Organized by discipline.”

“Of course. Now, walk to the throne. It’s probably ergonomic. See the man sitting on it?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“What’s he wearing?” I ask.

“A tailored suit.”

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