Chapter Fourteen
I Asked for Stillness, Not a Beautiful Masculine Healing Collective
I am journaling.
I am eating.
I am absolutely not having a meltdown in my sacred Womb Cloak? while clutching a pinecone of love, a rock of masculine rage, a feather of soul-recognition, a driftwood metaphor for late-stage burnout, and a stick I’m pretty sure I orgasmed onto.
I take a deep breath.
Then I take another bite of something that might’ve once been a granola bar but is now more of a compressed block of sadness and expired chia seeds. I found it in a tin labeled “Sacred Snacks.” I think Callie wrote that on it with glitter glue during the first new moon of Pisces.
It tastes like anxiety and artificial fruit.
I write:
Day Three. Root Chakra work is in full swing. I am calm. I am leading. I am definitely not being emotionally dismantled by a curated lineup of forest-scented men with personal growth agendas.
I pause. Take another bite.
Asher gave me a moss heart. Seb gave me a rock with tension issues. Jax gave me a stick that probably witnessed a crime. Jonah gave me a feather and then surgically exposed my unresolved identity crisis. Miles gave me a piece of wood that feels like a thesis on abandonment.
I underline abandonment.
Then doodle a tiny screaming womb next to it.
I reach for my tea and realize, belatedly, that it is not tea, it is just hot water with a single raspberry floating in it. I called it “Raspberry Infusion of Grounding.” It is neither grounding nor raspberry.
I write:
Note to self: stop giving the tea spiritual names. It doesn’t make it taste better. Especially if it’s just forest water and panic.
My stomach makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like grief.
I stare at the feather.
The robe is heavy on my shoulders, warm and safe and way too symbolic of being cared for. I am not ready to be cared for. I am a leader. A fraud. A deeply romantic feral woman with boundary issues and a bad history with emotionally intelligent gift-givers.
I eat the rest of the sad bar and try to remember who I was before this week started.
I think I was someone who didn’t blush every time someone handed her tree debris with meaning.
I was someone who had a plan.
A schedule.
An agenda that didn’t involve being spiritually edged by five emotionally wounded men with strong jawlines and inner child trauma.
I pick up the driftwood. Turn it in my hands.
There’s a groove on the back. It could hold something. A key. A ring. A hope I didn’t mean to have.
I stare out the window of the dome.
It’s quiet.
Too quiet.
Which is suspicious.
Which is how I know something is wrong.
Or worse, something is going right.
I step outside to clear my head.
Just a short walk. A little sun. Maybe scream into the woods. Maybe whisper affirmations to a tree about boundaries and how I’m not falling in love with a curated selection of male archetypes hand-delivered by the universe to dismantle me.
The forest air is warm. Pine-sweet. Suspiciously serene.
Too serene.
I follow the path toward the clearing, expecting someone to be climbing a tree or lighting something on fire.
Instead I walk directly into a scene that feels like it was ripped from an extremely sensual ayahuasca brochure.
They’re all there.
Jax. Jonah. Asher. Seb. Miles.
In a circle, shirtless, sitting on cushions they carried from the dome, eyes closed, and breathing in perfect rhythm like they’ve been doing covert breathwork behind my back.
There’s incense burning in the center, a few stones arranged in a little altar formation, and what might actually be a playlist called “Grounding Vibes for Men With Inner Conflict.”
I freeze.
The weighted robe pulls tighter around me like it’s trying to brace me for what I’m witnessing.
They are peaceful.
Jax has a serene look on his face that would be illegal in most states.
Miles is sitting so straight and still I’m afraid if I blink he’ll vanish.
Seb’s hands are pressed to his thighs, fingers slightly curled, like he’s ready to punch God if necessary but only after he finishes this breath cycle.
Asher is smiling, soft, present, totally high on his own spiritual success.
And Jonah? Jonah opens his eyes and looks directly at me. Doesn’t smile. Just tips his head the slightest bit, like yes, Bliss. We’re doing stillness. Without you.
I nearly faint.
What is happening?
This was my retreat. My chaos. My fake program of healing rituals invented between yogurt breaks and existential dread.
And now they’re doing it?
Together?
Without needing me?
I back away like I’ve just walked in on an emotional cult summoning a higher self. I trip slightly on a root. My granola bar wrapper crinkles. My dignity crumbles like poorly mixed oat flour.
Miles opens his eyes. “Morning,” he says calmly, like he didn’t just co-lead a silent masculine alignment summit.
Asher beams. “We didn’t want to interrupt your reflection time. So we created a shared grounding container. It was Seb’s idea.”
Seb shrugs like it wasn’t a big deal, like he didn’t just cause me to short-circuit with affection and panic.
“I.” I start, but I don’t know what I’m trying to say. You can’t walk into a spiritual mutiny and form coherent sentences.
Jonah raises an eyebrow. “Would you like to join us?”
I blink. “Join? No. No, I have to go journal. Or scream. Or bake.”
Jax opens one eye, and smirks. “She’s gonna spiral.”
“I’m not spiraling,” I lie.
“Bring snacks,” Asher calls helpfully. “Something crunchy for the container.”
I spin and walk back toward the dome at a pace that’s definitely not panic-fast.
They’re unionizing. They’re self-regulating. They’re becoming a collective of shirtless emotional integrity and I don’t know how to stop it.
Or if I even want to.
I pace the dome, robe dragging like a train of velvet shame, mumbling to myself and chewing the corner of a protein bar I don’t remember opening.
They meditated.
Without me. With coordination. Breathwork. Matching spiritual auras. Possibly group clairvoyance.
Seb suggested something. Seb. Who grunts at clouds. Who once stared at a sage bundle like it had insulted his mother.
No. No, no, no. This cannot stand.
I am the chaos conductor of this retreat.
If I don’t reassert spiritual authority now, by tomorrow they’ll be leading me through sacred shedding practices and inner child rage drumming.
I throw open my sacred supply drawer, toss aside two expired rose quartz sprays and a bag of ceremonial confetti, and find it.
The oil. It was a gift from Callie. Labeled in gold marker:
“For emergency divinations and seduction spells.”
It smells like frankincense, desperation, and a free sample from an overly aggressive metaphysical booth.
Perfect.
I grab a ceramic bowl, light a tealight under it for dramatic ambiance, toss in a sprig of rosemary for theatrics, and then I stand tall, arms raised, and declare aloud to no one, “We will now begin The Anointing of the Third Eye With Intention Oil?.”
Ten minutes later, they’re all in the dome.
Every single one.
Seated quietly on cushions, legs crossed, eyes closed, ready.
I didn’t even have to call them.
They came voluntarily.
Jax is smirking like he knows this is nonsense but is also kind of turned on.
Miles is seated in a perfect lotus, genuinely meditating.
Jonah’s brow is furrowed in suspicion, which is how I know he respects the ceremony.
Seb looks like he’s about to either transcend or punch the floor.
And Asher… oh, Asher is glowing. He’s clasping his hands like we’re about to do spiritual trust falls off an energetic cliff.
I step into the center.
They all look at me. Silent. Expectant.
My robe sways like a prophecy. I lift the bowl. “This ritual,” I intone, “Is a sacred practice. Of aligning your third eye. With your higher self. Through intentional forehead lubrication.”
Miles opens one eye. “Did you say lubrication?”
Jax mutters, “I heard it. I liked it.”
Jonah says nothing, but I feel judged in 4K.
I clear my throat. “This oil has been charged under several moons. It contains the essence of rosemary, cracked pepper, sensual deceit, and possibly expired coconut.”
Seb nods solemnly.
I dip my fingers in and approach Asher first.
He tilts his head back with pure devotion.
I touch the oil to his forehead.
He exhales like I just anointed him with cosmic truth and the last remaining drop of his mother’s unconditional love.
One by one, I go around.
Miles blinks when I touch him, but doesn’t flinch. “Fascinating,” he murmurs. “Feels warm. Possibly psychosomatic.”
Jonah closes his eyes just before I reach him, and when I touch the spot between his brows, he whispers, “Don’t forget your own.”
I nearly pass out.
Seb closes his eyes. Doesn’t speak. But the room feels heavier after. Like something in him gave permission.
Jax grins and lowers his head slowly. “Be gentle,” he says. “I’m spiritually sensitive.”
I press the oil to his third eye.
He moans, just slightly.
It is not helpful.
I return to the center. Bowl in hand. Shaking.
They are all still, grounded, and intently watching me.
I have absolutely no idea what I’ve done.
Then Asher whispers, “Should we chant?”
I black out internally. I clear my throat, still holding the bowl like it’s the Holy Grail of Oh Shit What Have I Done.
“Okay,” I say brightly, too brightly. “That concludes the official Anointing of the Third Eye With Intention Oil?. Thank you all for surrendering your foreheads.”
I start to back toward the altar table, ready to call this done and crawl into my robe like it’s a womb of denial.
But Jax, still lounging like temptation incarnate on his cushion, lifts a hand. “Shouldn’t we close the circle with something more… connected?”
I blink. “Connected how?”
He grins. “Intention sharing. One word. From each of us. About Bliss.”
I feel all the blood drain from my extremities. “I…”
Asher gasps. “Oh! Like a sacred circle of gratitude! I love that.”
Miles nods thoughtfully. “It does feel... ceremonially incomplete.”
Jonah just gives me a long, unreadable look.
I hate how much I love it.
Jax, already moving, dips his fingers back into the oil.
I freeze. “Where are you?”
“Not your forehead this time,” he murmurs. He reaches out, slow and sure, presses his hand to my thigh, just above the knee, under the robe, where it’s definitely not ceremonial, and draws a symbol I’m certain is neither sacred nor safe.
His fingers move slow, circling up toward the hem, the oil slick and warm, his voice low as he says, “My word is want.”
I nearly combust.
He leans back.
Miles stands next. Calm. Clinical. But his gaze lingers longer than it should on the exposed skin of my leg.
He dips two fingers in the oil, kneels, and adds a second symbol beside Jax’s. Smaller. Sharper. “My word is clarity,” he says. “Because you disorient me.”
He returns to his place like he didn’t just lobotomize me with sensual intention.
Jonah rises. No preamble. Just action. He kneels. Pushes my robe up another inch. Draws a line so light it makes me shiver. “Truth,” he murmurs. “Even when you’re pretending.”
Then he looks up, directly into my eyes, and leaves the print of his thumb beside it.
I forget how to exist.
Seb’s turn. He doesn’t speak. Just moves in silence, presses a wide palm to my thigh, and drags a streak of oil like he’s marking territory. “Steady,” he finally says.
The word is soft. Heavy. It lands in my chest like a stone.
Then Asher. Of course Asher kneels like a man offering his heart to the moon. He adds a swirling little shape between the others, right at the center of the softest skin. “Safe,” he whispers. “Because that’s how I feel around you. Even when you’re wild.”
I am about to ascend.
They return to their places.
And I’m left standing, one leg streaked in five glistening symbols of emotional destruction, heart pounding like a shaman drum in a sex cult, robe clinging to my body like even it knows I’ve lost control.
The room is quiet.
Then Jax smirks and says, “We should do this every night.”
I retreat to the corner cushion like I’m escaping a group séance that got too personal and maybe accidentally awakened my womb chakra.
My leg is still glistening.
They’re still watching me.
Not intensely. Not hungrily.
Just… present.
Like they meant it.
I grab my notebook, open it to a blank page, and write:
Do not let them near the oil again.
Then:
Also: do not let them gather unsupervised. Or speak. Or breathe near you with intention.
I slam the notebook shut. Fumble for my phone.
Text Callie like it’s a lifeline braided from emotional regret and lavender-scented depravity.
ME:
update: i am the anointed goddess of accidental harem worship and i think i climaxed via oil symbolism
CALLIE:
what the actual f u c k
ME:
they painted my thigh with spiritual affirmations like i was a ritual buffet
CALLIE:
did you like it?
ME:
yes
ME:
yes callie i liked it so much
CALLIE:
babe i don’t know if you’re leading a retreat or hosting the sexiest midsummer cult in north america
ME:
neither do i
ME:
and they want to do it every night
CALLIE:
so basically you’ve been emotionally oiled into submission by your harem?
ME:
i am the sacred sauce now
I toss the phone aside, pull the robe tighter, and whisper into the incense-scented air, “Tomorrow. I regain control.”
The universe giggles in sandalwood.