Chapter Twelve
Sacred Stillness and Other Lies I’m Making Up Today
I wake up to the sound of birds, a beam of sun directly on my face, and the deeply unsettling realization that my robe is on the floor, my legs are still trembling, and I have zero plans for the day.
Sacred Stillness in the Root Chakra Lounge? was a title.
A concept.
An aspirational Pinterest board.
But actual activities? Structure? A schedule?
Nope.
I was far too busy last night being spiritually rearranged by a man whose growl can summon orgasms.
Jax is gone.
Which is probably for the best, because if he was still here, I would not be focused on breathwork or grounding or whatever today was supposed to involve. I’d be busy losing my religion on repeat.
I sit up slowly, every muscle aching in the best way. I find my robe (inside out), put it on (wrong again), and stumble out of my dome into the morning light like a woman reborn and also deeply unprepared.
Asher is already standing by the fire circle. Of course he is.
His hair is freshly damp, his Fox Cub mug is full, and he is holding his notebook.
I freeze.
He waves. “Hey! I wasn’t sure if you wanted us to meet here or in the lounge. Do you have a printed itinerary for today’s stillness progression?”
I blink. Smile. Big. Serene. Totally fake. “Today… is itinerary-free.”
Asher blinks. “Oh.”
“It’s part of the design,” I say quickly. “Sacred Stillness is about the absence of schedule. The presence of intuitive flow. Structure is the enemy of surrender.”
He nods slowly, eyes wide. “Wow. That’s… that’s kind of revolutionary.”
“It’s also because time is a colonial illusion,” I add, for no reason. “Now go hydrate in silence.”
He bows, and then walks away, whispering “absence of structure is the structure” like I’m some kind of robe-wrapped prophet.
I exhale hard.
But before I can sneak off to maybe write an emergency fake worksheet on “Grounding with Intention,” I catch it.
A glance.
Seb. Sitting nearby. On a bench. Quiet. Still. Watching me.
His expression is unreadable. But his brow lifts, just slightly. Like, “So... you and Jax?”
I immediately look away, cheeks flaming.
Which is how I almost collide with Jonah, who appears like a shadow I definitely didn’t invite.
He says nothing. Just raises an eyebrow. Then his eyes flick, briefly, pointedly, to my neck.
I lift my hand. Touch skin. There it is. A bite mark.
I might die.
“Good morning,” Jonah murmurs. His voice is low. Amused.
I make a noise like a choking bird and flee to the so-called Root Chakra Lounge?, which is currently just a large mat, some velvet pillows, and a playlist I can only describe as “sexually tense woodwind instrumentals.”
I have ten minutes to invent a sacred stillness ritual that doesn’t involve anyone touching, talking, or asking follow-up questions.
And maybe twenty to figure out if Miles is going to tell everyone I spiritually climaxed on his breath the night before.
I kneel in the center of the Root Chakra Lounge?, surrounded by strategically fluffed pillows, vaguely suggestive red throws, and the faint scent of sandalwood anxiety.
I take a deep breath, trying to remember who I was before last night, before Jax pressed me against the door and realigned every spiritual vertebrae in my body. I need to be Bliss the leader. Bliss the guide. Not Bliss the woman who cried out “goddess bless” while riding a man who howled.
The dome flap rustles.
Asher enters first, barefoot, with a giant mug and the shining face of someone ready for growth. He smiles at me like I’m a morning star, and I immediately feel like a fraud.
Miles arrives next, crisp as ever, holding a sleek thermos and looking far too composed for a man who whispered filth into my ear last night like a velvet threat. He meets my gaze briefly, just enough to wreck me, then settles onto a cushion and closes his eyes like this is a board meeting for the soul.
Seb follows, slow and silent, eyes already half-lidded, a walking monolith of unresolved tension. He chooses the cushion closest to the exit. His way of keeping one toe in the forest.
Jonah walks in next, offers a nod, and a brief flicker of gaze that lingers just a hair too long on my mouth. He sits like a wolf waiting for orders he may or may not follow.
Jax strolls in like the dome belongs to him. Hair tousled, shirt rumpled, the faintest scratch on his jaw that might be from me. His gaze sweeps over me, and settles like heat on my throat. His mouth quirks, barely. Just enough to say I remember how you sounded without a word.
I don’t flinch. But I do, internally, die a little.
“All right,” I say, voice calm, steady, the exact tone of a woman whose thighs are not clenching reflexively. “We begin our journey into Sacred Stillness now. This is a practice of inner grounding. A return to root-level awareness. A moment of embodied silence.”
They stare at me, all five of them, sitting in a loose circle on cushions that feel far too intimate for a group I’ve either kissed, fantasized about, or full-on had a spiritual orgasm with.
I close my eyes. Breathe in. “This is not about forcing silence. It’s about inviting it. We’ll begin with a root-body scan, anchoring breath into the pelvis, the hips, the base of the spine.”
Someone shifts. Probably Asher. He’s a fidgeter.
“We’re going to breathe into our sits bones,” I continue, “Into our connection with the floor, with the earth, with the core of our primal self.”
There’s a long pause. I open one eye.
Miles is still. Eyes shut. Controlled.
Asher is mouthing the words “sits bones” like he’s unsure if they’re medical or mystical.
Seb is a statue. A coiled one.
Jonah is watching me through half-lowered lashes.
And Jax is not closing his eyes. He’s watching me. The whole time. His hand on his knee. His thumb stroking a slow, lazy circle on the fabric of his pants. His head tilted slightly like he’s listening, sure, but also like he’s thinking of anything but stillness.
I close my eyes again and take a deep breath. “Inhale grounding. Exhale distraction. Inhale truth. Exhale expectation.” My voice stays steady, even as my skin flushes with the weight of knowing exactly how Jax looks when he’s between my legs. “Inhale safety. Exhale tension.”
I try not to think about how there’s a literal bite mark on my neck right now. Or how Jonah probably noticed it. Or how Miles definitely knows. “Allow the body to be heavy. Allow the spirit to settle. Let the root lead.”
I let the silence stretch, holding it like breath, like ritual, like a spell I didn’t entirely mean to cast.
Ten seconds. Fifteen. Thirty.
Someone exhales soft. There’s a shift in posture, the faint whisper of cloth brushing cloth, a single sigh like surrender.
And just for a moment, an actual, honest, breath-suspended moment, they all drop into it.
Even Jax. His eyes close. His breath slows.
And that’s when I realize, wildly, stupidly, against every law of reality and masculine resistance, I may have actually created stillness.
Not metaphorical. Not sarcastic. Not pretend-you’re-meditating-while-planning-dinner kind of stillness.
Stillness.
Real. Actual. Sacred.
I can feel it settling in the space between us like fog, thick and quiet, the kind that makes you wonder if this is what peace sounds like when it finally stops posturing.
Jax isn’t smirking.
Miles isn’t analyzing.
Jonah isn’t interrogating me with his eyes.
Seb is breathing like he’s in the middle of a decade-long nap.
And Asher is glowing. Quiet. Peaceful. Absolutely radiating Fox Cub achieved enlightenment in a moss nest energy.
“Yo, Bliss! You got a thing!” Toad shouts.
I flinch. Everyone opens their eyes. Miles makes a sound that might be a sigh, or a suppressed curse. Jonah lifts a brow. Jax immediately lies back on his cushion like this is a matinee performance.
Toad pushes through the entrance flap with a cardboard box the size of a small altar, held awkwardly under one arm and slapping against his hip as he walks.
“There’s like six of these,” he says, “And I swear one of ‘em made a noise when I hit a bump.”
I blink. “What.”
“Delivery. Addressed to this place. You. And a bunch of dudes. From... Ashleigh?” Toad says.
Asher’s face lights up like the sun. “That’s me! Well, technically Asher, but sometimes the shipping forms autocorrect.”
I stare at him.
He beams. “I got us gifts.”
“Gifts,” I repeat, as if that will slow down time and make sense of anything.
“For Stillness Day,” he says, already bounding across the dome to help Toad with the other boxes. “And to honor our cubs being fully rewilded. It felt like the right time for meaningful objects of quiet support.” He starts handing out boxes.
Miles’s is sleek and black, wrapped with a tiny sage-colored ribbon.
Seb’s is heavy. He lifts it like it’s made of stone and doesn’t even flinch.
Jax’s comes with a warning label.
Jonah’s is minimalist and matte, with a small wolf sticker.
And mine is bigger, wrapped in velvet with a little wooden tag that says: “For Bliss, One who guides, even when winging it.”
I might cry.
Asher kneels beside me, holding it out like it’s the Sacred Scroll of Inner Knowing.
“It’s for your personal stillness,” he says. “I wanted it to be… grounding. Comforting. But also practical. But also something you’d never buy for yourself. But also vibey. And meaningful.”
I blink at him. “Is it a…?”
“Open it,” he says, practically vibrating.
I pull the ribbon, unwrap the velvet, and inside is… a luxury weighted robe.
Soft as sin. Lined with ethically sourced, lavender-scented microbeads. Hooded. With a hidden interior pocket. For crystals. Or snacks.
Asher grins. “It’s called The Womb Cloak?. They only make, like, ten a year. I had to message someone on Etsy and prove I was spiritually worthy.”
I stare at it. Then back at him. “I… Asher, this is…”
“I just thought,” he says softly, “If you’re always holding space for everyone else, maybe something should hold space for you.”
The dome goes quiet. Not sacred quiet. Surprised, emotional chaos quiet.
Even Jax sits up.
Miles tilts his head.
Seb squints at me like he’s reassessing my entire soul.
Jonah just murmurs, “Nicely done,” and unwraps his box with deadly calm.
I pull the robe into my lap, already overwhelmed, and suddenly I’m blinking way too fast for someone who’s supposed to be leading Sacred Stillness in the Root Chakra Lounge?.
I clear my throat. Try to smile. “Thank you, Asher. That’s… incredibly thoughtful.”
“You deserve nice things,” he says. “Especially when you pretend not to.”
I might die. I might combust. Or I might throw this robe over my body, sink into a cushion, and finally admit that stillness is way harder to maintain when five emotionally devastating men keep doing soft, considerate shit.
I clutch the robe to my chest like it might protect me from the growing pile of soft emotional chaos building at my feet.
Asher is still smiling at me like he didn’t just spiritually dismantle my defenses with a gift that smells like lavender and emotional security.
I clear my throat, find my voice, and rise with the quiet dignity of a woman who absolutely did not cry over a weighted garment with a secret snack pocket.
“Your stillness work,” I say calmly, “Is not done.”
They look up.
I inhale. Ground myself. Lie with authority. “Stillness is not just something you practice on a cushion. It must be found in nature. It must be sought. Claimed. Breathed into existence.”
Jonah tilts his head slightly. “We’re going into the woods.”
“Correct,” I say.
Seb grunts. Possibly a yes.
Jax raises an eyebrow. “And we’re looking for…?”
I wave my hand like the answer is obvious. “Your Stillness Token. A sacred object that calls to your inner quiet. You’ll know it when you see it. Could be an acorn. Could be a weirdly shaped rock. Could be a pinecone with eyes.”
“Eyes?” Miles mutters.
“Metaphorical eyes,” I say, already shepherding them toward the door. “Follow your instincts. Do not return until you’ve found your token.”
Asher gasps like this is the best quest he’s ever been on. “Yes! Yes, this is exactly the kind of silent forest pilgrimage I was hoping for.”
They scatter.
Miles goes reluctantly, Jonah with intention, Seb like he’s already halfway into the bark, Jax muttering something about finding a sacred stick to beat his stillness into place.
And Asher beams at me like I hung the moon and wrapped it in velvet.
Once they’re gone, I collapse into a cushion, robe in my lap, face in my hands.
Then I pull out my phone and text Callie.
ME:
stillness day is fake and i just sent five emotionally unstable men into the woods to find meaningful dirt
ME:
i had sex with jax last night and miles whispered threats at me like a sensual librarian and then asher just gave me a weighted robe with lavender microbeads
ME:
he called it a womb cloak, callie. a womb. cloak.
i think i saw god
CALLIE:
i leave you alone for two days and suddenly you’re the emotional nucleus of a himbo harvest festival
CALLIE:
pls send pics of the robe and also jax’s abs. for wellness.
ME:
it smells like a hug from someone who’d rub your back during a panic attack and then rail you respectfully
CALLIE:
so... asher’s the one who’s going to ruin your soul, huh?
ME:
that’s what’s terrifying. i thought it would be the chaotic one with the motorcycle and the rage.
but no.
it’s the one who makes me tea and believes in my fake spiritual curriculum.
CALLIE:
oh honey.
that man’s not a fox cub.
he’s a spiritual trap in a soft hoodie and you’re already in it.
I stare at the screen, pull the robe around me, let it settle, and for the first time all day, maybe all week, I feel… warm, held, a little lost, and maybe just a tiny bit found.