Page 23 of Unclench Me Softly

Then the door opens, and he steps out.

I blink. Once. Then again. Because there’s no way this man is real.

He’s got the kind of presence that warps time. Designer luggage in one hand, sunglasses that probably have their own security detail in the other. His whole aura says,I donate to rainforests but still think taxes are theft.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Clean-shaven, with a jaw sculpted for legal trouble in seventeen countries. His button-down shirt is so perfectly fitted I briefly consider the possibility of tailoring as a dark art. His shoes are offensively white. His emotional availability is visible from space, like a black hole, but colder.

And then he removes the sunglasses.

Slowly.

Gracefully.

Infuriatingly.

His eyes find mine, gray. Not the brooding, poetic storm kind. No. These are polished granite. The kind of eyes that have seen their own reflection and decided that was enough emotional depth for one lifetime.

And then, as if this moment needed a final blow, he speaks.

“Bliss Calloway?” His voice is calm. Low and measured, like everything he says has already passed through three rounds of audio mixing.

I feel it in my bones. “Uh,” I manage, scrambling for vocabulary. “Yes. I mean, yeah, that’s me. I’m Bliss. You’re…”

“Miles Sinclair.” He steps forward and extends a hand.

I take it before my brain catches up. It’s warm. Steady. Surgeon-steady.

And I tense. Like I’ve just been spiritually slapped.

Because oh no.

He’s hot.

Not “forest daddy” hot or “rage monster” hot or “sensitive wreck” hot.

No. He’s “I will politely ruin you and leave a five-star Yelp review” hot. Problematic authority figure hot.

“You’re right on time,” I say, struggling to make my voice sound like I haven’t just imprinted on him like a spiritual duckling.

He nods. “I believe in punctuality.”

Of course he does. Serial killer. Or worse, Punctual Sagittarius.

He scans the compound, his expression unreadable. “I wasn’t sure I’d made the right choice. But it’s quieter than I expected.”

I can’t tell if that’s disappointment, admiration, or pre-litigation assessment.

“We like to let the land speak for itself,” I say, gesturing vaguely toward the domes. My hand is still holding duct tape. Fantastic.

He nods slowly. “I assumed there’d be a welcome desk.”

“There was,” I say quickly. “But it wasn’t… aligned.”

He raises a brow. “Aligned with what?”

“Vibrational autonomy,” I say without blinking.

He just nods. Like I’ve quoted an OSHA regulation instead of inventing spiritual nonsense on the spot.

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