Chapter Twenty-Two
The Sacred Brunch of Intuitive Pancake Sharing? and Itinerary Mutiny
I wake up tangled in a blanket that smells like sandalwood, sin, and questionable life choices. There’s glitter on my thighs. My left boob is partially out of my robe. And my root chakra feels like it did ayahuasca without telling the rest of me.
I blink blearily at the ceiling of my dome, trying to remember what day it is, whether I’m still technically in charge of anything, and if I imagined the part where I got spiritually spanked by a man who uses the Oxford comma and files things by emotional tone.
Before I can answer any of those questions, there’s a knock at the flap.
Then I hear Asher’s voice. “Bliss? Um. Don’t freak out. We made you breakfast. And possibly restructured your entire retreat.”
I sit up too fast, and the blanket tries to murder me. “You what?”
The flap opens and Asher pokes his head in, smiling like someone who both did a good thing and knows he’s about to be punished for it.
He carries a wooden tray like it’s a peace offering. There’s a steaming mug, folded napkin, scrambled eggs shaped suspiciously like a sacred spiral, and two small pancakes topped with what I’m 87% sure is a flower.
“We, uh… had a group meeting,” he says, stepping inside and setting the tray gently in my lap. “You’ve been doing so much. And we thought… maybe you deserved a break. So we planned today.”
I just stare. “Planned… today?”
He nods. Too quickly. “Seb made the fire. Jonah did the coffee. Jax was on egg duty, but I supervised. Miles made an outline. And I might’ve created a short itinerary.”
He hands me a piece of paper with color-coded blocks, bullet points, and a header that reads:
The Sixth Pillar?: Shared Masculine Uplift Through Acts of Communal Nourishment and Emotional Logistics
(subtitled: We Give Back Now, Please Rest, You Soft-Tyrant of Our Hearts)
There are only two events listed:
Sacred Brunch of Intuitive Pancake Sharing?
The Karmic Dishwashing of Accountability?
“We thought this could be the day of service,” Asher says softly. “To you.”
I stare at the itinerary. At the tray. At his hopeful face, and something in my chest does a little cartwheel before completely collapsing.
“You built a sixth pillar?” I whisper.
“We even argued over the name,” he says, dead serious. “Jax wanted to call it ‘Give Her a Damn Break.’ Miles insisted on the word ‘communal.’ Jonah just wanted to burn something again.”
I put a hand over my heart. Because of course I’m crying into my pancakes now.
Before I’ve finished emotionally crying into the first flower-adorned pancake, the flap opens again and Jax strolls in like he’s arriving for a funeral he intends to sexually disrupt.
He’s wearing a black robe.
It’s hanging open.
Of course.
His abs are glistening like he rolled in ceremonial coconut oil and intention. He carries a plate of fresh pancakes in one hand and a bottle of maple syrup in the other, like offerings for a slightly depraved goddess.
“Good morning, sacred source of our nourishment,” he says, bowing low enough that I nearly lose consciousness. “May I welcome you to the Sixth Pillar? Brunch Ritual of Intuitive Pancake Sharing and Sensory Rebirth.”
I blink at him, then at Asher, who is now looking extremely proud of himself and also slightly afraid.
Jax sets the plate down on the small altar-table like he’s placing relics before a queen who may or may not be menstruating and in charge of his fate. Then he straightens., claps his hands together, and begins to speak.
“Brothers, fellow seekers of the softened divine,” he intones, loud and theatrical, “We gather this morning in humble gratitude, having risen early, some of us with morning wood and spiritual purpose, to engage in the ancient masculine rite of the pancake.”
Asher snorts into his tea. I am frozen in place, clutching a bite of syrup-drenched carb like it might anchor me to reality.
Jax paces slowly in front of the altar, barefoot, half-naked, clearly improvising with the same confidence I use to invent entire healing rituals out of expired essential oils and trauma.
“In this circle of gluten and grace,” he continues, “We blend dry and wet, heat and air, fluff and firmness. We flip. We fail. We make again.”
“Jesus Christ,” I whisper.
“But always,” Jax says, raising the syrup bottle like a chalice, “We serve with intention. With open hearts. With hot buttered desire.”
I nearly choke.
“May these cakes, forged in fire and spatula, be a sacred offering of masculine devotion. May they open your clit chakra. May they realign your brunch aura. May they make you feel,” he pauses dramatically, “Held.”
There’s a silence that feels strangely spiritual.
Then Asher claps softly.
And I? I spiral.
Because this is the moment it hits me fully, I’ve created monsters. Beautiful, shirtless, spiritually unhinged monsters. And they’re feeding me pancakes. With feeling.
While Jax is still mid-monologue about butter as spiritual lube and the moistening of the clit chakra through intentioned carbs, the flap of my dome opens again, and then again, and again, until suddenly all five men are inside.
They’re all holding trays. Actual trays.
Miles with a ceramic teapot and matching cups, Seb with a small bowl of whipped honey and something green I’m afraid to ask about, Jonah balancing a stack of folded napkins and dark berries like he’s offering them to the gods of primal snacking.
They don’t speak.
They move silently, reverently, placing each item around me like I’m a goddess being altar-dressed for sacrifice or maybe something worse, like love.
Before I can ask what in the name of gluten-infused delirium is happening, Jax lifts one hand and speaks with sudden ceremonial gravity.
“Brothers,” he says, gesturing to the tray before me. “Prepare your offering with maple-infused intention.” Then, without breaking eye contact, he says, “Asher. You’re first.”
Asher straightens like he’s just been called to testify in front of the moon. He steps forward, eyes wide but filled with that wild, radiant devotion that always threatens to undo me.
He picks up a knife and fork like holy tools. Cuts one perfect triangle from the spiral-stacked pancake. Dips the edge into syrup with the focus of a man applying balm to a wound that hasn’t even formed yet. Then he lifts it to my mouth.
“This bite,” he says, voice soft but steady, “Feeds your sense of belonging. In this body. In this space. With us.”
I don’t cry. I just open my mouth and let him feed me while something in my chest cracks gently open like the first warm day of spring after a very long winter.
Next is Miles, who steps forward already holding a small steaming cup of tea in both hands. “You’ll cleanse your palate first,” he says, completely serious, “So the offerings can each be fully received.”
I sip.
Miles nods once, then takes the next bite from the plate and adds a small drizzle of the tea to it like he’s constructing a metaphysical pairing. “This one,” he says, holding it out to me, “Feeds your sense of containment. The peace of being held within structure. Without demand. Without collapse.”
The bite is soft and slightly floral. Like surrender, but spiced.
By the time Jonah steps forward, I’m breathless.
He says nothing at first. Just selects a wedge of pancake, presses a dark berry into the syrup-soaked surface, then holds it toward my mouth with a slow, almost reluctant tilt of his wrist.
“This one,” he says, voice low and gruff, “Feeds your sense of danger. Of being seen where you’re sharp. And loved there anyway.”
The bite is tart. It shocks my system, makes my mouth water, makes my spine shiver in a way that is not, strictly speaking, brunch-appropriate.
Seb moves next.
He doesn’t speak, doesn’t ask, just selects a bite, drizzles honey over it with one finger, and holds it out with both hands, like he’s offering something that might vanish if it’s not accepted with reverence.
There are no words. But the look in his eyes tells me everything I didn’t know I needed to hear.
I take the bite with trembling lips, and for a moment, the silence between us feels louder than all the declarations in the world.
And finally, Jax. Of course he waits until last.
He selects the biggest bite, layers of syrup and butter, a little obscene. He doesn’t kneel. He crouches beside me like a temptation that already knows it’s been accepted.
“This bite,” he murmurs, voice thick with amusement and something deeper, “Feeds your sense of fuck around and find out.”
I choke-laugh.
He feeds it to me with syrup dripping down his fingers, and when I lick it off the corner of my lips, his pupils dilate so fast it feels like an eclipse.
And me?
I am sitting in the middle of my own dome, half-wrapped in a robe, full of pancake and praise, absolutely on the verge of becoming spiritually overstimulated by carbs and connection.
By the time I swallow the fifth sacred bite, I am not sure if I’m full or just high on intentionality.
Because every one of them is still watching me like they’ve each just offered a part of their soul via pancake, and I ate it. Willingly. With eye contact.
The energy has shifted again.
It’s no longer brunch.
It’s ritual.
It’s foreplay.
It’s emotional edging via breakfast food.
And then Jax picks up another bite. Doesn’t feed it to me. Just drizzles maple syrup over it, thick and slow, and catches a spill with his finger, which he licks off. With eye contact that feels like a promise and a threat.
“We could just…” he says, voice a low suggestion, “Anoint you.”
I blink. “Anoint… me?”
He dips a finger into the syrup again and traces a small, sticky spiral just below my collarbone, then leans in and licks it clean like it’s part of the ceremony. And maybe it is now. Maybe everything is.
“For spiritual sweetness retention,” he says.
Miles sighs but doesn’t stop him. Just pours me more tea and mutters something about needing to “track the caloric impact of tantric sugar rituals.”
Seb lifts the bowl of honey. Raises an eyebrow. Doesn’t ask.
“No,” I say too quickly. “We are not starting a dessert-based devotion circle.”
“Too late,” Jonah rumbles, already smearing a thumbful of jam across my wrist and licking it away like a wolf sampling holy fruit.
“This is a lot,” I whisper, very faintly, very not convincingly.
And then, Toad walks in, holding a small box. He stops and looks around the room.
Jax is licking syrup off my shoulder. Miles is casually pouring tea while Jonah just growled. Seb is holding a spoon like he’s considering where best to apply it. Asher is beaming like this is the best day of his entire spiritually confused life.
Toad squints. “I don’t want to know,” he mutters. “But Asher told me to bring this in when things were… settling.”
I make a strange noise that sounds like guilt and maple panic.
Toad sets the box on the altar and backs out slowly like he’s witnessed some kind of cult mating ritual and is going to need another raise.
Asher bounces forward, actually bounces, opens the box with a kind of excited reverence, and pulls out six delicate pieces of carved wood on dark woven cords.
Each charm is a slightly curved geometric shape, hexagon-adjacent, polished smooth, lightly scented with sandalwood.
“They’re puzzle charms,” Asher says proudly. “Custom. Each piece fits with the others, and yours is the center that holds the pattern. You wear it… if you want. No pressure. I just thought…” His voice trails off.
He’s holding mine out now, and it’s… beautiful. Slightly larger than the others. Smooth. Inlaid with a spiral carved so finely I can feel it call to something in my chest.
I take it with both hands. My fingers are still sticky.
“You made us cult jewelry,” I whisper, stunned.
He shrugs, sheepish. “Group bonding symbol. Shared energy. Something to remember this by.”
And my throat is suddenly too tight to answer.
Because somehow, the syrup orgy wasn’t the most intimate part of the morning.
This is.