Chapter Six
Jonah Vale and the Weaponized Eye Contact
He’s standing by the pond.
Of course he is.
Barefoot.
Hands in his pockets.
Looking at the water like it’s whispering ancient secrets to him and not full of horny koi and old incense ashes.
I stop mid-step.
Because the man who turns to face me as I approach is... dangerous.
Not in the “might punch someone” way (Jax), or the “might emotionally unravel in my lap” way (Asher), or the “might write poetry about his trauma and make me read it under candlelight” way (Seb), or even the “might financially destroy me during a healing seminar” way (Miles).
No.
Jonah Vale is dangerous because he looks like peace wrapped in charisma. Calm. Warm. Quiet confidence in perfectly relaxed shoulders and a jawline that says, “I’ve made mistakes, but I learned from them, and I go to therapy willingly.”
He’s wearing soft linen. Casual. Not too crisp. Not too disheveled. The kind of man who knows how to roll his sleeves exactly right.
And when he smiles at me, slowly, like he knows the effect it’s going to have, I feel my internal organs politely bow out of service.
“Bliss Calloway,” he says.
His voice is deep, smooth, the exact temperature of really good coffee and regret he’s processed in a journal.
“You must be Jonah,” I manage, trying to keep my spine straight and not blush like a schoolgirl who accidentally astral projected into a romance novel.
He nods. “I hope I didn’t miss anything important.”
No. Just my last shred of spiritual immunity.
I wave my hand casually. “Nothing we can’t circle back to in your dome.”
His brow lifts just slightly. “Was that an innuendo?”
“Absolutely not,” I lie. “This is a very sacred space.”
“Of course,” he says, nodding slowly like he totally respects that and is also definitely picturing me naked beneath my linen robe.
I hate him.
I love him.
I hate that I love him.
He walks toward me, measured steps, easy confidence, and I get a whiff of whatever expensive cologne he’s wearing. It smells like warm earth, clean skin, and betrayal.
“How was your trip in?” I ask, backing up a half-step so I can breathe.
“Long,” he says. “But worth it. This place is... exactly what I was hoping for.”
“I promise it’s not always... this chaotic.”
He looks around at the domes, the wind chimes, the faint sound of someone (probably Jax) yelling something about “energy ball punching” from the ceremony circle.
He smiles again. “I like a little chaos. Makes it feel alive.”
“Right,” I mutter. “Alive. Cool. Great.”
We stare at each other for a beat too long.
My aura tingles in deep confusion. Then I snap back to leader mode. Sort of.
“Well, you missed our first ritual,” I say, turning toward the path. “But you’re just in time for the next one.”
“Unclenching part two?” he asks.
I glance over my shoulder. “That’s not what it’s called.”
He grins. “Should be.”
God. His voice shouldn’t be legal.
“Come on,” I say, picking up the pace and internally smudging myself. “We’re doing... something. Group bonding. Vulnerability work. Possibly interpretive emotional charades.”
He follows, easy and unbothered. “Sounds intimate.”
“I’m spiritually celibate during activities,” I snap.
He chuckles. “That sounds like something someone says before they break their own rules.”
I walk faster. Because if I don’t get him to that dome and away from my ovaries, I will end up surrendering something tonight, and it won’t be just his ego.
They’re all here now.
All five of them.
Sitting in a wonky circle like a reverse harem fever dream that crawled out of my manifestation journal and into my linen-clad reality.
Jax, shirtless again, legs spread, already chewing on a toothpick like he’s auditioning for “Emotionally Unavailable: The Musical.”
Asher, vibrating like a guilt-ridden hummingbird, clutching his reusable water bottle and a notebook labeled “Softness Log.”
Seb, still silent, arms crossed, staring at the bowl of rocks like it personally owes him closure.
Miles, posture perfect, expression unreadable, probably drafting a review in his head titled “Why This Ritual Would Never Be Approved by a Board of Ethics.”
And Jonah Vale. Smiling. Calm. Gorgeous. Like he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be, and that’s what makes him the most dangerous of all.
“Okay,” I say, standing at the front of the dome with a wildly unnecessary cowbell in one hand. “Welcome to our second sacred exploration. Today’s activity is about connection. Authenticity. Letting your inner self be seen.”
I pause dramatically, because that’s what real leaders do when they’re stalling.
“It’s called... Vulnerability Charades.”
Asher claps. Like, earnestly. “Oh my god,” he says. “That sounds both terrifying and so important.”
Jax groans and flops back onto his elbows. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“You’ll love it,” I say with a sweet smile that’s absolutely a threat. “Everyone draws a card from the bowl and acts out an emotion or an experience. No words. Just movement. The rest of the group guesses what it is.”
Miles tilts his head. “So you’re encouraging theatrical emotional expression... in a group setting... with no training?”
“Yes,” I say.
He looks unimpressed. “Unorthodox.”
I turn to Jonah. “Would you like to go first?”
He gives me a slow smile that makes my knees contemplate surrendering. “Ladies first,” he says.
Jax snorts. “You’re gonna regret that.”
I ignore them and reach into the bowl, draw a card, and read it silently. “Being left on read by someone you loved.”
I sigh.
Of course it’s that one.
I set the card aside and step into the center of the circle. I drop my arms, lift my chin, and begin walking away slowly. Then I spin around, eyes wide and hopeful, and mime typing on an invisible phone. I wait. Pause. Check again. Wait longer. Wilt dramatically.
“Are you acting out dying from boredom?” Jax asks.
“Loneliness,” Seb says quietly.
“Emotional abandonment layered with hope and self-doubt, framed through a millennial lens of digital disconnection?” Asher asks.
I blink. “Yes.”
Asher beams.
I sit down. “Okay,” I say. “Who’s next?”
Jax grabs a card, stares at it, and grins like a feral child. Then he stands and immediately begins shadowboxing.
He throws a fake punch. Blocks. Spins. Then stumbles, clutches his chest, staggers dramatically, and drops to one knee with his hand on his heart.
Miles mutters, “A mid-life crisis disguised as masculinity.”
“Toxic ego collapse,” Asher guesses.
“Fear of vulnerability expressed through performative strength,” Jonah says.
“Getting dumped by someone you never admitted you loved,” Seb says.
We all turn.
Seb’s eyes don’t leave Jax’s.
Jax blinks. “Damn.” He drops the card. “Next.”
Asher picks one like it’s a sacred scroll. He reads it, nods seriously, and begins his performance.
He stands. Puts a hand on his chest. Then mimics lifting a heavy bag. He tries to carry it. Stumbles. Falls. Tries again. Looks at us. Points to his chest again. Tries one more time. Then kneels and “offers” the invisible bag forward.
The dome is silent.
I stare at him. “That was... surprisingly moving.”
Asher wipes a tear. “It was emotional labor in a one-sided relationship.”
Even Jax claps a little.
Miles sighs like his soul is tired. “Fine,” he says. “Let’s get this over with.” He pulls a card, reads it, and then straightens his shoulders like he’s entering a courtroom.
Then he proceeds to pantomime... something.
He puts on an invisible tie, straightens it, and looks in an invisible mirror. Practices smiling. Stops. Tries again. Stops. Then reaches into his chest and mimes pulling out a perfectly beating heart, and shoving it back in. Hard.
“The performance of stability,” Jonah says.
“Weaponized perfectionism,” Asher answers.
“You’ve all done this before, haven’t you?” I say.
Miles sits down. “No comment.”
Then it’s Jonah’s turn. He moves slowly. Calmly. Rolls the card between his fingers. Then steps into the circle.
He doesn’t speak. He just... stands there. Still. He looks at each of us, one by one.
He doesn’t act.
He doesn’t perform.
He just is.
Until the stillness becomes unbearable.
Then he presses one hand to his chest, closes his eyes, and exhales.
Soft. Long. Like a weight he’s been carrying for a decade just left his body.
He opens his eyes and looks directly at me.
And the floor drops out from under me.
Jax crinkles his nose. “Was that supposed to be something?”
Miles cocks his head. “Subtle.”
“Devastating,” Asher says.
After a long pause Seb says, “Loss. But accepted.”
Jonah smiles. “Exactly.”
I look away.
Because if I keep looking at him, I’ll say something I can’t take back. Like “please destroy me spiritually with your well-processed grief.”
Instead, I rise. “Thank you,” I say, voice only slightly shaky. “That concludes Vulnerability Charades.”
Everyone claps.
Even Jax. Sarcastically.
I bow like I’ve just survived a psychic ambush.
And I think, how am I supposed to survive the rest of this week with these men if they keep unclenching this hard?
I don’t even make it back to my dome.
I plop down behind the koi shrine with my phone and a leftover intention rock, which I may or may not be using as a stress squeezer, and open the only sacred space I still trust:
GREMLIN COVEN 4EVER
ME:
okay so update we are now
five for five
and this last one might actually kill me
CALLIE:
is this the mystery man
the crypto paying soul seeker
tell me everything
ME:
okay but first
imagine this:
barefoot
linen shirt open just enough
smells like sandalwood and closure
smiles like he knows secrets about your past lives
calm, too calm
“might be a sexy assassin but in a gentle way” calm
CALLIE:
oh no
oh no no no
is he the one???
ME:
no
he’s the problem
he talks slow
he listens hard
he looks at me like he’s decoding my aura and writing poetry about it in his mind
CALLIE:
you’re so screwed
in a sacred way
what happened??
ME:
i made them play vulnerability charades
it was supposed to be funny
it was not funny
jax mimed a fistfight with emotional repression
miles pantomimed being dead inside but with style
seb said five words and i almost cried
asher acted out codependent burnout with a performance worthy of a tony
and then
then
jonah
just stood there
and breathed
and made eye contact
and i think my soul ovulated
CALLIE:
i am screaming
you manifested this
you made this man in a ritual when you were lonely and horny
he is your chaos golem
ME:
he’s gonna ruin me
i can feel it
i’m gonna end up naked in the moon dome writing poetry in my own blood
CALLIE:
good
send pics
ME:
i have a third activity to run and i might not survive it
do you think anyone would notice if i locked myself in the crystal pantry and never came out?
CALLIE:
no but they’d probably do a vulnerability seance to find you with matching robes and guided breathing
you’d hate it
and be so turned on
ME:
i’m spiritually exhausted
i’m aroused in seven directions
i’m going to snack then start the next activity
CALLIE:
wear protection
i mean moonstone
for clarity
and for not accidentally sleeping with five men in a spiritual ceremony
ME:
there are no guarantees