Chapter Five
Punctuality and Other Red Flags
The morning sun drips gold across the clearing, warm and syrupy, and the birds, too cheerful, too coordinated, are practically harmonizing. A breeze brushes through the trees like the forest itself is exhaling, long and slow, like everything is finally at peace.
Which is exactly why I know something’s off.
There’s a tingle under my skin, in that part of me that no amount of grounding crystals can shut up. It’s not anxiety. It’s not even intuition. It’s... spiritual static. The kind that pricks at the base of your neck when the universe is rearranging furniture behind your back.
I’m crouched outside Dome Two, halfway through duct-taping a tea light holder to a wind chime, because innovation is born from desperation and an expired glue gun, don’t come for me, when I hear it.
Tires. On gravel. Again.
My spine straightens before I even process it, vertebrae cracking like I’m 87 and cursed by a witch with a flair for metaphor. I stand slowly, squinting toward the guest circle.
And there it is.
A car. Parked with surgical precision like someone measured the distance with a protractor and an attitude. Obsidian black. Sleek and silent. Gleaming like it was detailed by guilt and generational wealth.
Then the door opens, and he steps out.
I blink. Once. Then again. Because there’s no way this man is real.
He’s got the kind of presence that warps time. Designer luggage in one hand, sunglasses that probably have their own security detail in the other. His whole aura says, I donate to rainforests but still think taxes are theft.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Clean-shaven, with a jaw sculpted for legal trouble in seventeen countries. His button-down shirt is so perfectly fitted I briefly consider the possibility of tailoring as a dark art. His shoes are offensively white. His emotional availability is visible from space, like a black hole, but colder.
And then he removes the sunglasses.
Slowly.
Gracefully.
Infuriatingly.
His eyes find mine, gray. Not the brooding, poetic storm kind. No. These are polished granite. The kind of eyes that have seen their own reflection and decided that was enough emotional depth for one lifetime.
And then, as if this moment needed a final blow, he speaks.
“Bliss Calloway?” His voice is calm. Low and measured, like everything he says has already passed through three rounds of audio mixing.
I feel it in my bones. “Uh,” I manage, scrambling for vocabulary. “Yes. I mean, yeah, that’s me. I’m Bliss. You’re…”
“Miles Sinclair.” He steps forward and extends a hand.
I take it before my brain catches up. It’s warm. Steady. Surgeon-steady.
And I tense. Like I’ve just been spiritually slapped.
Because oh no.
He’s hot.
Not “forest daddy” hot or “rage monster” hot or “sensitive wreck” hot.
No. He’s “I will politely ruin you and leave a five-star Yelp review” hot. Problematic authority figure hot.
“You’re right on time,” I say, struggling to make my voice sound like I haven’t just imprinted on him like a spiritual duckling.
He nods. “I believe in punctuality.”
Of course he does. Serial killer. Or worse, Punctual Sagittarius.
He scans the compound, his expression unreadable. “I wasn’t sure I’d made the right choice. But it’s quieter than I expected.”
I can’t tell if that’s disappointment, admiration, or pre-litigation assessment.
“We like to let the land speak for itself,” I say, gesturing vaguely toward the domes. My hand is still holding duct tape. Fantastic.
He nods slowly. “I assumed there’d be a welcome desk.”
“There was,” I say quickly. “But it wasn’t… aligned.”
He raises a brow. “Aligned with what?”
“Vibrational autonomy,” I say without blinking.
He just nods. Like I’ve quoted an OSHA regulation instead of inventing spiritual nonsense on the spot.
And God help me, I want to lick his jaw.
Focus, Bliss. Focus.
“I’ll show you to your dome,” I say, already walking because if I stand here another second, my uterus is going to start composing poetry.
He follows in silence, but his presence feels diagnostic. Like he’s taking mental notes on my posture, my breathing, my chakra balance. I hate it. I love it. I am not okay.
“This is your space,” I say when we reach Dome Two. “It’s been energetically cleared and emotionally fluffed.”
He raises a perfect eyebrow. “Emotionally fluffed?”
“I don’t know,” I snap, turning on him. “I’ve had a week, and it’s only Tuesday.”
He pauses. Then, softly, like a therapist breaking bad news with a candle lit between you, he says, “You look like someone who’s used to pretending they’re in control.”
I blink. Hard. Like that’ll shake it off.
“You look like someone who says that to people who cry during facials.”
He smiles.
And it’s obscene. It’s illegal. It’s a full-body event.
“That’s not inaccurate,” he says.
I stare at him a second too long. He’s all sharp edges and smooth delivery, like a TED Talk wrapped in a fever dream. My brain is melting.
“Your schedule’s in the dome,” I manage. “First ritual starts in an hour. Try not to be more on time than you already are, it’s making the other men nervous.”
He inclines his head solemnly. “Of course.” He steps inside.
I take three giant steps back, breathe like I’ve just run a marathon, and immediately message Callie.
ME:
he’s hot
too hot
he’s either a sociopath or a soul contract with a six-pack
send holy water and a paper bag
I arrange the final cushion in the sacred circle, then step back and stare at my masterpiece.
Seven cushions. Four guests. One guru. Two empty spots.
I tell myself the empty ones are symbolic. Space for growth. For spirit. For divine potential.
But really, they just scream “Jonah Vale is late and I hate him already.”
Which is unfair, I know. He could be lost. Or delayed. Or a chronic Aquarius. But it’s the principle of the thing, only one of the five men I tricked into paying for spiritual realignment actually showed up on time.
One.
Miles.
Of course it was Miles.
He’s probably already sitting in his dome meditating in expensive boxer briefs and perfect posture while his skincare routine calculates my death.
I adjust a candle. Then adjust it again. Then nearly knock over the quartz tower I precariously perched on top of an upside-down salad bowl I’ve labeled “The Offering Vessel.”
Ritual prep is supposed to be sacred. Quiet. An intentional grounding of energy.
Mine is 75% panic, 20% improvisation, and 5% hoping no one notices the “holy herbs” are just dried Trader Joe’s rosemary.
I try to center myself. Breathe. Feel the aura of the space.
Instead, I think about the men.
Jax, rage wrapped in muscle, currently chopping wood like he’s fighting generational trauma with every swing. He’s not going to sit still in a ritual unless I glue him to the cushion and sedate him with moon tea. Or... straddle him. Which is not in the program. Yet.
Asher, sensitive, skittish, emotionally damp in a way that makes me want to hug him and maybe cry into his hoodie. He’ll over-participate. I’ll have to stop him from trauma-dumping during the breathwork.
Seb, silent, bearded, and built like a cabin that smells like regret and pine. He’ll sit through the entire thing saying nothing and still somehow make me question my entire personality with a single, broody glance.
Miles, pristine, punctual, and so tightly wound he probably color-coded his trauma. I don’t know what scares me more, his control or the way he said I look like I’m pretending to be in control.
And then there’s Jonah Vale.
Or rather, there isn’t.
I don’t know much about him except that he signed up through a private invite link and paid the full amount in crypto. His profile said he was a “self-made investor seeking post-capitalist spiritual integration.” Which honestly could mean anything from “tech bro burnout” to “wants to do ayahuasca and yell at a tree.”
I was going to put him in the Dome of Initiation, which is just the laundry dome with a salt lamp and a bean bag chair, but now I’m wondering if he’s even going to show.
Maybe it’s a good thing.
Five men felt ambitious. Four I can handle.
Maybe. Possibly. Okay no I can’t.
I light the final candle, inhale deeply, and whisper to the space, “Please don’t let any of them cry, fight, or flirt with me during the sacred release circle.”
The candle flickers like it knows better.
They arrive like omens.
First is Asher who stumbles in five minutes early, holding a reusable water bottle, a crystal journal, and what looks like an apple he bit once and forgot to finish.
“Hey,” he whispers, sitting cross-legged and already pulling out his pen, “I made a list of mantras for the unclenching process. I also blocked out the hour afterward for reflective journaling in case anyone wants to share. Should we sync schedules?”
I stare at him.
He stares back, hopeful, like a golden retriever with a trauma minor.
“Just... breathe, Asher,” I say gently. “Maybe... don’t speak for a little bit.”
He nods rapidly and immediately starts writing that down.
Second is Miles, of course. Precisely on time. He walks into the dome like it’s a surgical suite, nods once at the setup, and sits exactly on the cushion I intended for him. He adjusts it by half an inch to center it perfectly and then places his hands neatly on his knees, eyes closed.
I want to punch him and/or ask what kind of moisturizer he uses.
Next is Seb, silent as always, emerging from the trees like a haunted forest god. He doesn’t look at anyone. Just sits. Still. Like he’s prepping for an emotional seance that will summon all his unresolved pain.
I internally scream and tell myself it’s fine. This is fine. Everyone is seated. They’re breathing. No one’s…
“Yo,” comes a voice from outside. “Which dome is for the jaw stuff?”
And then in walks Jax. Shirtless. Again.
Sweat-slick, wood chips in his hair, like he just wrestled a tree for dominance. He flops onto the last cushion with a grunt, spreading his legs wide enough to personally offend my root chakra.
“Is this Unclenching Day?” he asks, already smirking. “Because I feel like someone owes me dinner first.”
I breathe in through my nose so hard I taste sage and rage.
“Welcome,” I say, too sweetly. “You’ve all arrived, mostly, on time. Today we begin the sacred process of releasing the inner tension, letting go of control, and surrendering the burdens we carry…”
Jax raises his hand.
I ignore it.
“…through the ritual of The Unclenching of the Jaw, the Fist, and the Ego.”
Jax raises his hand higher.
“No,” I say without looking at him.
“I just think the first part should’ve come with a safe word,” Jax says.
Asher blushes so hard I worry he’s going to combust.
Miles opens one eye, sighs like a disappointed therapist, and closes it again.
Seb remains still. But I swear he looks a little amused.
I press my palms together and pretend I’m not two seconds from starting a cleansing scream ceremony.
“This is a time for silence,” I say. “For presence. For surrender.”
Asher raises his hand.
I nod at him because he’s trying.
“I added a breathwork app to my phone just in case anyone needs a guided option?” he offers. “It has different settings. One of them’s called ‘Letting Go of the Inner Alpha.’”
Jax snorts. “Pass.”
Seb says nothing.
Miles mutters, “Unsurprising.”
The energy is so not aligned.
I light a bundle of sage with dramatic flair and start waving it around like a priestess in crisis.
“Close your eyes,” I say, desperate. “Breathe deeply. In through the nose... out through the mouth. Release tension. Release thought. Release the urge to say something smartass-y about fists.”
Jax coughs pointedly.
I throw a crystal at him.
He catches it with a grin. “I’m taking that as an offering.”
And still, no Jonah.
One man is missing. One more chaos variable. And my opening ritual is already being spiritually pantsed by a human himbo, a meditation app, a marble statue of control, and an emotionally haunted log cabin.
I exhale slowly.
I inhale intention.
I exhale sanity.
Let the healing begin.
The energy was almost right.
There was a moment, a fleeting second, when all four men had their eyes closed. Their breathing synced. Their auras stopped punching each other.
I could feel it. A flicker of alignment.
And then Asher exhaled with so much force it sounded like he was giving birth to a ghost.
I open one eye and look at him.
His face is scrunched in spiritual intensity. He’s gripping the river rock I gave him like it holds the password to his self-worth.
“Asher,” I say softly, “Relax your forehead.”
“I’m surrendering,” he says, voice cracking. “Really hard.”
“Don’t try so hard to let go,” I say.
He whimpers. “But what if I let go wrong?”
“You can’t let go wrong…” I start.
“I need a checklist,” he interrupts.
“You don’t need a…” I start.
“Is this part of the surrender?” Jax asks, one eye open. “Because it feels like a group panic attack.”
I inhale through my teeth. “No,” I say calmly. “This is the part where we sit in stillness. And open to the possibility of unclenching.”
Asher lets out another heroic breath and shifts his hips. His mat squeaks like it’s experiencing trauma.
Then Jax shifts too, louder this time, the squeak is unmistakable.
There’s a sacred pause in the tension, and then he grins, wide and utterly unrepentant.
“You guys,” Jax says, eyes sparkling like someone who’s just committed a holy crime. “I think the ego just squeaked.”
Seb, who has been silently meditating like a brooding mountain monk, finally opens one eye and stares at Jax with the slow judgment of a man who has chopped wood to avoid conflict for years.
Jax shrugs. “What? It was a funny squeak.”
I smack my own forehead lightly with my palm.
“Okay,” I say through clenched teeth, “Let’s re-center. Everyone, touch your stone. Take a deep breath in. Visualize yourself releasing control, softening the mind, the jaw, the…”
“Fist?” Jax adds helpfully.
“Ego,” I snap.
Asher’s breathing gets more intense. Like he’s trying to hyperventilate his way into enlightenment. Then he whispers, “I think I unclenched something important.”
I don’t ask what. I don’t want to know.
Miles sighs. Audibly. His voice cuts in like a surgeon interrupting a drum circle. “This is… unorthodox.”
I blink at him. “Excuse me?”
He gestures to the ritual setup like he’s critiquing a wine flight. “There’s no clear structure. No defined technique. You’re relying on improvisation, emotional cues, and poorly defined symbolism. Which may work for some, but it lacks any grounding methodology.”
I blink again. “It’s called intuitive facilitation.”
“It’s called chaos with candles,” Miles says.
“Okay,” I say, standing. “We are done unclenching for right now.”
Asher sits bolt upright. “But I didn’t finish my journaling reflection!”
“Do it silently. In your dome. While drinking tea,” I say.
“Is there tea?” Asher asks.
“Toad!” I shout into the trees. “Can you please manifest some herbal tea before I scream into the void?”
Jax is openly laughing now.
Seb is… possibly asleep.
Miles is still staring at me like I just delivered a TED Talk in interpretive dance.
I walk calmly out of the dome, smiling. Then scream into a throw pillow behind the shrine.
I sit in the grass outside the ritual dome, still clutching a pillow to my chest like it’s holding my sanity together.
The men are inside.
Breathing weird.
Possibly journaling.
Definitely judging me in four entirely different ways.
And all I wanted was one sacred moment of spiritual surrender. A little ego release. A gentle vibe massage of the soul. Instead I got an audible mat fart, a ritual critique, and Asher trying to optimize his breathwork like it’s a productivity app.
I don’t know if I want to scream or sleep for fourteen hours.
And I still have another Unclenching activity planned for this afternoon.
“Emotional Vulnerability Charades.” It sounded better in my notes.
But before I can even contemplate which parts of my body I’ll have to clench just to get through it I hear footsteps, and the distinct sound of something sloshing in a mason jar.
“Toad,” I say flatly, without turning around. “Is that tea or emotional poison?”
He plops down beside me and hands me the jar. “Lemon balm and rose hip,” he says. “Infused with gentle regret.”
“Perfect,” I mutter, sipping. “I needed something to pair with humiliation and existential thirst.”
He reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper. I assume it’s a leaf at first. Or a note from a ghost. It’s always a gamble with Toad.
He squints at it and says casually, “Oh yeah, forgot to tell you. Some guy just showed up.”
I pause. “What guy?”
“Fifth one. Quiet type. Real smooth. Says his name’s Jonah.”
I lower the jar slowly. “Toad.”
“He’s by the pond. Said he didn’t want to interrupt your ‘spirit stuff.’ Just nodded real deep and said he was ready to surrender.”
I stare into the distance.
The air stills. The wind chimes fall silent.
And I say, very softly, “I swear to the goddess, if this man is hot and emotionally articulate, I’m hexing the entire male species before dinner.”