The rain-slicked Parisian streets blurred past the taxi window, a smear of grey stone and golden light. Galit shivered, pulling her thin jacket tighter. The sudden spring chill had seeped into her bones the moment she’d landed at Charles de Gaulle. Or maybe it was the jet lag. Or the lingering sadness of a trip meant for two, now taken alone.

Pushing through the ornate door of the Saint-Germain café, the warm, rich scent of coffee and baked bread was a physical comfort. And there she was. Léa. Her childhood friend, her partner in every imaginary adventure from ages six to sixteen. Time had sculpted her—the gangly girl was now a woman of elegant lines and quiet confidence, her dark hair cut in a chic bob that framed a face lit up with genuine delight.

“Galit! Mon Dieu, look at you!”

They collided in a hug that felt like coming home. For an hour, they talked over croissants and café au lait, the years melting away in shared laughter and rushed summaries of their lives. But as the afternoon wore on, Galit’s energy drained. A dull ache settled behind her eyes, and a deep, pervasive chill made her fingers feel numb. She tried to hide it, to keep smiling, but Léa’s sharp eyes missed nothing.

“You’re pale,” Léa said, her voice softening. She reached across the small table, her cool fingers pressing against Galit’s forehead. “You’re burning up.”

“It’s nothing,” Galit protested, but her voice wavered. “Just travel fatigue.”

“Nonsense. You’re coming with me. My apartment is two blocks away. You need to lie down.”

Galit was too tired to argue. She let Léa guide her out, arm wrapped supportively around her waist, through the drizzling rain and into a charming, ancient building with a creaking elevator. Léa’s apartment was a postcard of Parisian charm—exposed beams, overflowing bookshelves, and a view of a hidden courtyard. The warmth was immediate, embracing.

“Here, sit,” Léa instructed, guiding Galit to a deep, plush sofa. “Let me get a proper thermometer. I don’t trust those modern things.”

Galit leaned back, closing her eyes, listening to the soft sounds of Léa moving around in what she assumed was the bathroom. She heard the gentle clink of glass. When she opened her eyes, Léa was standing before her, holding something that looked oddly old-fashioned. It was a slender glass thermometer, the silver tip catching the soft lamplight.

“This is the most accurate way,” Léa said, her tone soothing, matter-of-fact. “But it needs to go… rectally. For a true reading.” She said it with such gentle authority, the kind born from years of a childhood where they’d bandaged each other’s knees and shared every secret.

Galit’s breath hitched. A flush of heat, unrelated to fever, swept up her neck. “Léa, I…”

“Shhh. It’s just me. We used to bathe together as little girls. This is no different. It’s just care.” Léa’s smile was tender. “Come. Lie across my lap. It will be easier.”

The world seemed to slow down. Galit’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic counter-rhythm to the soft patter of rain on the skylight. Slowly, awkwardly, she shifted, lowering herself until her stomach and chest were pillowed on the soft cushions of the sofa, her hips settled across Léa’s firm thighs. The position was profoundly vulnerable, intimate in a way she hadn’t anticipated. The soft wool of her skirt brushed against the back of her thighs.

She felt Léa’s hand, warm and sure, gently tugging at the waistband of her panties, tucking them down just enough. The cool air of the apartment kissed her exposed skin, and she shivered violently, a full-body tremor that was part fever, part sheer, shocking exposure. A deep, helpless blush burned its way from her cheeks down to her chest.

“Just relax, chérie,” Léa murmured, her voice a soft hypnotic melody. “This will only take a moment.”

Galit felt the cool, slick touch of something—vaseline, perhaps—against her most private furl. She stiffened, a small gasp escaping her lips. Then came the pressure. Not harsh, not abrupt, but a persistent, insistent nudging. The rounded glass tip pressed, then began to slide. It was a slow, deliberate invasion, a foreign object breaching a intimate boundary with clinical purpose. The sensation was bizarre—a stretching fullness, a coolness moving inside her. She clenched instinctively, but Léa’s free hand settled on the small of her back, a warm, heavy weight holding her still.

“There,” Léa breathed, as the thermometer slid fully home, leaving only the glass stem visible. “Just like that. Now we wait.”

And they did. The silence was thick, charged. Galit was acutely aware of every point of contact: the press of Léa’s thighs beneath her hips, the warm hand on her back, the obscene, medical intrusion she could feel with every slight shift. Shame, curiosity, and a strange, drowsy arousal swirled in her gut. She buried her face in the cushion, her breath coming in short, quiet pants.

After what felt like an eternity, Léa gently withdrew the thermometer. The slide out was another shock, a hollow, sensitive feeling. Galit shuddered, a fresh wave of heat flooding her face.

“A little fever,” Léa announced, her voice still that gentle, caring murmur. “Not too bad. But you’re tense, ma petite. All knotted up. That won’t help you heal.”

Before Galit could process the words, she felt Léa’s hands return. But now, they weren’t clinical. They were soothing. One hand spread warmly over the full, round curve of her exposed buttock. The other joined it. And then they began to move.

It started as a gentle kneading, the heels of Léa’s palms pressing into the firm muscle of her glutes, working in slow, circular motions. The touch was firm, possessive. A soft, involuntary moan vibrated in Galit’s throat, muffled by the cushion. Léa’s thumbs dug into the sensitive crease where thigh met cheek, and Galit’s hips jerked slightly.

“See? So tense,” Léa cooed, her hands sliding lower, massaging the tender skin of her inner thighs, so close to where Galit was growing wet and achingly warm. The touch was anything but casual now. It was exploratory, reverent. The slick vaseline from earlier served as a lubricant, making Léa’s palms glide effortlessly over her skin, each stroke sending shivers of illicit pleasure up her spine.

One hand drifted back up, a single finger tracing the now-relaxed, sensitive pucker that had so recently held the thermometer. Galit gasped, her back arching of its own volition, pushing herself into that feather-light, devastating touch.

“Léa…” she whimpered, the word a plea and a question.

“Chut,” Léa whispered, her breath warm against Galit’s ear as she leaned closer. “This is just part of the treatment. To make you feel better. Do you feel better, Galit?”

Her finger pressed, not inside, but just there, applying a soft, circular pressure that made Galit see stars. Her own hips began to move in tiny, helpless circles, grinding against the firm muscle of Léa’s thigh, seeking friction for the throbbing ache that had centered between her legs. The care had shifted, seamlessly, into something else entirely. The line between nurse and lover had not just blurred; it had vanished in the rain-soaked Parisian twilight.

“Yes,” Galit breathed, the admission torn from her. “But… I need…”