Melanie laughed, too quick. “The sauna.”

“You’re staring,” Marie said without turning around. Her voice was low, amused.

“Just… impressed you can take this heat.” Melanie’s mouth was dry, and not just from the steam.

Marie finally glanced over her shoulder. She was fifty, ten years older than Melanie, but her body was lean and unapologetic—small breasts, sharp collarbones, the faint roadmap of laugh lines and hard-won confidence. “You’re blushing,” Marie observed. “The sauna, or something else?”

Melanie’s heart kicked. “Marie—”

Marie solved the choice by closing the distance. The kiss was soft at first, then saltier, deeper. When they broke apart, the sauna’s thermometer read 85°C, but Melanie felt much hotter.

The heat in the private sauna was thick enough to taste—cedar, eucalyptus, and the clean salt of sweat. Melanie adjusted the thin towel on her lap, watching rivulets trace down Marie’s spine. They’d been friends for two years, ever since Marie joined the same boutique law firm. But this weekend away—a “relaxation retreat” Marie had insisted on—felt different.

The temptation wasn’t a lightning bolt. It was a slow, deliberate melting—like the ice Melanie had poured over the stones minutes ago, surrendering to steam. She could say this is a bad idea (boss-subordinate, age gap, the retreat’s thin walls). Or she could lean in.