Chapter Twenty
Fertilize With Feeling and Eye Contact
I arrange the five terracotta pots in a perfect semi-circle like I’m prepping for a fertility rite designed by a very emotionally involved gardening club. Each one gets its own little paper bag of sacred soil, technically store-bought organic compost, but I did bless it with intention and a spritz of rosewater this morning, so it counts.
Behind me, there’s movement. Footsteps. Energy.
I don’t need to look to know who it is.
There’s a certain heat Jax carries into a space, like the room knows before I do that something inappropriate is about to happen, and that it’s going to feel very, very good.
“Are we not fueling before the next round of spiritual earth-play?” he asks, and I can already hear the smirk in his voice.
“I am fueling,” I say, reaching for one of the bags and adjusting the fold like it holds ancient meaning. “With purpose. Through service.”
“Oh yeah?” he says, stepping in closer behind me. “Because this,” he says, and then he taps a finger lightly against my hip, “Feels less like nourishment and more like teasing.”
I roll my eyes without turning. “You’re supposed to be hydrating and processing. Not stalking the High Priestess of Potting Soil.”
He hums, low and amused, and I feel the air shift just before something presses against my lips. “Chocolate?” he offers.
I blink, then glance sideways.
He’s holding out a single M&M like it’s an offering to a goddess he’s already slept with and would like to offend again.
“Are you feeding me trail mix now?” I ask.
He shrugs one shoulder, the motion so casual it might as well be part of his mating ritual. “Only the good parts.”
“Let me guess. You keep the raisins for your enemies?” I ask.
“Naturally,” he says, and nudges the chocolate forward. “Take the blessing, Bliss.”
I open my mouth, mostly out of exasperation, and let him place the piece on my tongue. His fingers brush my lips like an accident, but I know better. Jax doesn’t do anything by accident.
He leans in, lips close to my ear. “You taste better, but this is good too.”
My spine stiffens and I make a strangled noise that’s somewhere between spiritual composure and pre-orgasmic eye twitch.
“Go sit down,” I say, swatting lightly at him with a cloth napkin from the altar prep basket.
He catches my wrist, just briefly, thumb brushing the inside like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything. “I like watching you when you’re trying to stay focused,” he says. “It’s almost sacred.”
And then he lets go and walks away, whistling softly, like he didn’t just turn my third chakra into a puddle of raw need and trail mix.
The others arrive just as I’m placing the final bowl of sacred basil seeds at the center of the planting altar, which is really just an old wine crate draped in velvet, but it has vibe, and that’s all that matters.
They file in one by one, sunlight catching on collarbones and forearms and the kind of post-breathwork glow that makes me question every life choice I’ve ever made. Even Miles looks a little flushed, which is probably the closest he gets to pre-orgasmic.
Asher smiles at me like I’m a blessing he’s still trying to earn. Seb nods once, calm and steady. Jonah tilts his head like he’s trying to read my thoughts and might not like the ending. And Jax walks in eating a banana, slowly, on purpose.
I ignore him with the force of will it usually takes to hold a moon ritual during an eclipse and gesture toward the pots.
“Welcome to the final ceremonial activity of Pillar Five,” I announce, lifting my chin. “The Seed Planting Ritual of Receptive Masculine Intention.”
There’s a beat of silence, then Jax says, “Wow. That sounds like an HR violation and a tantric porno at the same time.”
I inhale deeply through my nose and continue.
“This is a sacred act,” I say, pacing slowly along the arc of waiting pots like some kind of fertility priestess with boundary issues. “A moment of rooted intention. Of choosing presence. Of placing something small and potent into the soil of becoming.”
“Asher’s already doing that emotionally,” Miles murmurs, which earns him a gentle elbow from Asher and a grin from Jax.
I don’t stop.
“What you plant in the soil of surrender will rise with the rain of intention,” I declare, spreading my arms like I’m conjuring clouds from the power of metaphor alone.
There’s a snort. Possibly from Jonah. Possibly from me.
“This is about masculine nourishment,” I say louder, cutting through the laughter. “About choosing to plant something rather than destroy it. To offer your energy with care and presence. To soften in the face of stillness.”
Jax raises his hand like a very naughty schoolboy.
“Yes?” I ask, already regretting it.
“Are we… planting with our hands, or are we supposed to use the tool of divine penetration?” he asks.
The group loses it.
I close my eyes for one long, intentional breath. “And yes,” I say calmly, “Before anyone asks, again, the metaphor is biological. But it’s not sexual. It’s symbolic. Now grab your herb pot and breathe into your root chakra.”
The men are seated with their pots before them like reluctant demigods preparing to summon new versions of themselves through dirt and metaphor. I reach for the carved wooden tray beside me, lined with tiny linen pouches, each containing seeds for herbs and wildflowers.
“Now,” I say, drawing myself up to full sacred height, “You must each choose the plant that best reflects your rebirthed intention. Not who you’ve been, but who you’re becoming.”
Jax raises an eyebrow. “So, like… my inner basil?”
I exhale slowly through the nose. “More like the archetypal essence of your soul’s gentle masculinity, but sure. Basil if you must.”
They shift, all of them eyeing the options like I’ve just asked them to define their emotional legacy in potted herb form.
Asher, of course, reaches first. He picks up a pouch labeled “Chamomile.”
“It’s calming,” he says, glancing at me. “And soft. But still strong. I don’t know. It just felt right.”
I blink, because of course it did. Because Asher is literally becoming tea.
Miles takes longer. He frowns at each pouch like he’s conducting a botanical background check.
“I’ll take the thyme,” he says finally. “It represents patience. Endurance. Perseverance in the face of unpredictable conditions.”
Jax snorts. “You googled that.”
“I translated it from the Latin,” Miles replies, because of course he did.
Seb doesn’t say anything.
He just picks up a pouch of wild bergamot, rolls it between his fingers, and nods once. I have no idea what it means, but it hits me directly in the solar plexus like he just whispered something erotic about pollinators.
Then Jax steps up, scans the tray, and grabs a pouch labeled “Peppermint.”
“Sharp. Stimulating. Occasionally overwhelming in large doses,” he says, grinning. “Sounds like a masculine intention to me.”
“You’re a walking Altoid,” I mutter.
“I’m a breath of clarity,” he corrects, and pockets the seeds like he’s already planning to weaponize them.
That leaves Jonah.
He’s last, of course. He lifts the final pouch, flips it in his hand, and glances at the label. “Rue. Bitterness. Protection. Warding off evil,” he says. “Fitting.”
The others go quiet.
Because, honestly, it is.
I nod slowly, then gesture toward the center.
“Now,” I say. “Whisper your word of intention into the seeds, plant them in the soil, and offer your root to the light of surrender.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Jax raises a hand again. “Do we have to whisper the word out loud? Or can it just be a sexy internal whisper?”
“Your seed. Your choice,” I say, without blinking.
And somehow, impossibly, the ritual begins.
I kneel beside the center altar like I’m anchoring the ritual with my body alone, hands resting on my thighs, spine tall with ceremonial authority that’s hanging on by the thinnest thread of my remaining composure.
“Remember,” I say, voice calm but absolutely vibrating with effort, “Your word of intention should reflect your new softness. This isn’t about who you’ve performed. It’s about who you’re becoming. Whisper it to your seeds. Plant them gently. Paint the word on your pot with the blessed gel pen of your choosing. And yes, some have glitter.”
I pause for dramatic effect, then add, “Choose wisely.”
The first to rise is Asher, of course.
He walks forward like he’s been preparing for this moment his whole life. There’s reverence in his every step, in the way he cups the seed pouch in both hands like it might dissolve if handled without care.
He crouches beside his pot, opens the pouch, and whispers softly to the seeds inside. “Belonging,” he breathes, voice barely audible, like it’s a secret he’s scared to want.
I feel it like a pulse in my chest.
He presses the seeds into the soil with gentle fingers, then picks up a pale blue pen and writes the word carefully, like it might smudge his soul if he’s not precise. He dots the “i” with a little star.
I nearly cry.
Then Jax steps up, casual, loose-limbed, dangerous.
He crouches, glances sideways at me, and whispers to his seeds with a grin that should be illegal in ritual space. “Penetration,” he murmurs, then adds, “But gentle.”
My mouth falls open.
He winks and presses the seeds into the dirt like he’s tucking them in for the hottest nap of their lives. He selects the gold glitter pen, of course, and writes the phrase in looping cursive across his pot like it’s an incantation. Then he holds it up for the group to see, smiling proudly. “What?” he says. “It’s layered.”
I make a note to stage an intervention. Or maybe a second planting round with more boundaries.
Miles steps forward next.
He takes his time, as always, examining his pot, the soil, the lighting. He even checks the seed packet for instructions, which I respect and loathe simultaneously.
When he whispers to his seeds, it’s with the tone of someone delivering a lecture to the most delicate students in existence. “Stillness,” he says. “As in calm. Presence. The intentional resistance of chaos.”
Then he pulls a matte black pen from the tray, no glitter, and prints the word in all caps, centered perfectly, as though he’s writing it for future archivists to study.
Seb is next, and of course, he doesn’t speak at all.
He just kneels beside his pot, opens his pouch, and presses his seeds into the dirt with a stillness so profound it might be the intention itself.
When he picks up a pen, he doesn’t choose a color, he grabs the silver one and draws a rune. Simple. Sharp. Geometric.
I have no idea what it means, and it still wrecks me.
I blink too many times and tell myself it’s the incense smoke, not emotion.
Finally, Jonah steps forward.
He holds the seed pouch like it bit him. Crouches low, elbows on his knees. Then tilts his head toward the dirt and whispers something too quiet to hear.
It might have been a word. It might have been a growl.
He doesn’t pick a pen at first, just sits there, staring at the pot like it might explode.
Then, slowly, he reaches for the thick black one. No glitter. No flourish. He paints the entire pot black. Every inch. Silent. Methodical. A slow, creeping cloak of nothingness.
He doesn’t write a word.
Just sets the pot down when he’s done and stands, calm and unreadable.
The silence he leaves behind is… heavy. And strangely holy.
I clear my throat, smoothing my palms over my thighs like that will somehow realign my energy field after watching five men emotionally undress into potted soil.
I smile. Radiant. Shaky.
“Beautiful,” I say. “Absolutely sacred.”
Inside, I am screaming.
I lift the bowl of blessed water with both hands, holding it aloft like it’s filled with the liquid essence of rebirth and not, in fact, filtered tap water infused with rose petals and my rapidly deteriorating self-control.
“Now,” I say, keeping my voice serene even as my insides rattle like a forgotten offering bowl, “You will anoint your planted intentions. Offer them moisture. Nourishment. The sacred act of surrender to growth.”
I pass the bowl to Asher first.
He holds it like it’s precious, pours a gentle trickle into the soil, and exhales like he’s just let go of a decade’s worth of tension.
Miles does it with scientific precision, measuring out the pour as though the seeds might file a complaint if overhydrated.
Seb tips the bowl and watches the water soak in, his eyes distant, already tending something invisible.
Jonah does it like he’s performing a rite older than language. Still silent. Still impossible to read.
And then there’s Jax.
He waits until he’s the last one, then takes the bowl and gives me a look, the kind that should be outlawed in shared spiritual spaces and also everywhere else.
He kneels beside his pot, pours slowly, and murmurs, not to the seeds, not to the soil, but to me. “You like how I water things?”
There is a beat of silence so thick it should be declared a new plane of existence.
Asher inhales sharply. Miles coughs. Seb rolls his eyes and pretends he didn’t hear it.
I nearly drop the ceremonial candle I’m holding because my entire nervous system just short-circuited.
“Jax,” I say, very slowly, very carefully, “This is a sacred act of symbolic nurturing.”
He grins. “Exactly.”
I look away, immediately, because if I make eye contact for more than half a second, I’m going to combust and cry and possibly climb him like a sacred totem.
I place the candle on the center crate with trembling hands.
“Let the blessing be sealed,” I say, voice an octave too high. “May your seeds grow into the soft strength you’re still learning to believe you deserve.”
They all bow their heads.
Even Jax, who somehow still makes it look like foreplay.
And me?
I stand at the center of it all, robe fluttering in the breeze, trowel of peacock chaos at my feet, surrounded by five emotionally raw, herb-bearing men, and wonder, not for the first time, if I’ve created a spiritual miracle or a slow-burning erotic group psychosis.
Possibly both.
Probably both.
Definitely both.