Page 97 of Unclench Me Softly

And I’m the altar, the sacrifice, the priestess and the sin.

I ride him like I’m offering something, like this is the final ritual, the most sacred one, and I don’t know if the fire is still burning behind us or if I imagined it all, because all I know is the way he holds me, the way he groans when I tighten around him, the way he thrusts up into me once, sharp and deep, like he’s branding his name into every place I’ve been empty.

When I come again, it’s sharp and hot and sudden, and I cry out his name like it’s an invocation.

He follows a moment later, hands bruising my hips, mouth open on a gasp, and for one long, shuddering breath, we just stay like that, bodies locked together, limbs tangled, ash-smeared and ruined and reborn.

The fire is low now.

Just embers and shadows, flickering quietly like they’re trying not to intrude.

Seb hasn’t moved.

Neither have I, really.

We’re still tangled together, skin sticky with sweat and soot, breath uneven, legs half-numb from the uneven ground. My cheek rests against his chest, and I can hear the slow thud of his heartbeat beneath the ash I painted there earlier, steady and calm like nothing about what just happened surprised him.

He runs a hand slowly down my back, his fingers dragging along my spine in lazy, grounding circles. There’s no pressure, no urgency, just the kind of touch that says, I’m still here,without asking anything in return.

Everything aches, but in the best way, like I’ve been stretched and filled and rebuilt from the inside out.

I don’t speak.

Neither does he.

But gods, it feels like we’re saying everything.

His other hand finds my hair, fingers combing gently through it, and I want to laugh because there is absolutely no way there isn’t a twig or a pine needle in there somewhere. Possibly a beetle. But he just keeps going, slow and soft, and I swear it’s the closest thing I’ve felt to prayer all week.

I shift a little, still on top of him, but no longer moving. Just settling.

His hands settle too, one on my waist, the other at the nape of my neck, and we stay like that, breathing into the stillness, surrounded by the remains of a fire and the echo of something neither of us is ready to name.

Eventually, I press a kiss to his shoulder. Not because I meant to. Just because it felt like the right thing.

He hums. Low. Deep.

And then, barely above a whisper, rough like gravel, he says, “You okay?”

It’s such a simple question, but the way he asks it makes me want to cry a little, because it’s not casual. It’s not performative. It’s not just what you say after sex. It’s him, seeing me in all my post-ritual unraveling and still wanting to make space for the answer.

I nod against his chest. “Yeah,” I say softly. “Actually… I think I am.”

We lie there for a while longer, letting the night settle over us like a second skin. And even though I know I’ll eventually have to get up, find my robe, make up some story about an after-ritual grounding exercise involving exposure therapy and bark, I let myself stay.

Because this moment? This one’s mine.

I don’t know how much time has passed with us curled together like this, bodies tangled, skin still warm, breaths syncing up like some ridiculous nature poem, but eventually, he moves.

He doesn’t say anything.

He just shifts, slow and certain, and gathers me into his arms like I weigh nothing, like I’m not covered in ash and sin and moonlight and half of the forest floor. He carries me all the way back to my dome without a word, as if I’m something sacred. Something claimed.

Like I was a ritual he didn’t want to break by speaking too soon.

And maybe that’s exactly what I am now. A ritual. A warning.

A woman who just let a silent woodsman rearrange her soul under a pine tree.

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