Page 88 of Unclench Me Softly

Instead, he opens his notebook and stares at the page like it’s offended him.

I pour him some raspberry not-tea and refill my fig bowl like a hostess at a grief buffet.

He writes one line, crosses it out, then writes another, crosses that one out, too, and then just sighs and stares at me like I’m responsible for the state of his emotional Word doc.

“How do you start something like this?” he asks.

I take a fig half, dip it in honey, and chew like I’ve been waiting for this moment my whole life. “Start with what your King would never admit,” I say. “Or alternatively, open with a poetic insult. Like: Dear King, your reign was a PowerPoint without transitions.”

He blinks. Writes it down.

Oh gods.

He’s using it.

He writes a few more lines, jaw tight, then pauses again. “Does it have to be... dramatic?”

“Absolutely,” I say. “The sacred fire demands dramatic syntax. This is your Oscar monologue. Your villain backstory. Your rebrand.”

He glances at me, skeptical.

“Fine,” I say. “Then at least make it weirdly specific. The King doesn’t need ‘you were emotionally distant.’ He needs: you always adjusted your tie before saying something cruel.”

Miles freezes. Then, slowly, he writes that down too.

My chest tightens, because oh no, I’m accidentally good at this.

He keeps writing. His mouth is slightly parted. His brow furrows when he’s deep in it, and I have the devastating realization that watching Miles process emotion is kind of… hot?

No. No no no. This is a sacred space. I cannot be turned on by a man writing about his shadow self in lowercase italics.

He exhales. “Okay. I think I have something.”

I nod. “Read it.”

He hesitates, then, softly, he does.

It’s not long. It’s not polished. But it’s him. It’s precise and broken and so painfully restrained it makes my heart do this annoying fluttery thing I thought I burned off during my first moon ceremony.

He finishes.

I say nothing, because I’m afraid if I open my mouth it’ll come out as an apology to every man I’ve ever written off for having a tight handwriting style.

He looks at me. And for once, he isn’t trying to analyze what I’m thinking. He’s just… there, raw, and waiting.

I reach out, just to touch his wrist. Just to ground him. Just to keep from bursting.

He shifts forward slightly. His knee brushes mine.

And it’s so small, so nothing, but it feels like an inhale I’ve been holding for a week.

“You’re good at this,” he says quietly.

“Spiritually manipulative men’s therapy? Yeah, I’ve got a gift.”

He smiles. Just barely. “No. I mean... seeing people.”

I don’t have a smart reply for that. Which is dangerous, because silence is where feelings live.

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