The first rule in Løvlund was this:
You sweat before you touch.
Astrid learned it on her fourth day, when Leif Aadne, the quiet-eyed carpenter with hands like river stones, knocked gently on her porch railing instead of the door.
"First steam is at seven," he said simply. "Your mormor's bench is still open."
Astrid blinked at him, a wrench of fresh anxiety in her chest. "Steam?"
He didn't elaborate. Just nodded and pointed toward the slope behind the cottage, where a footpath curved through the pines. She hadn't noticed the stone building there, moss-covered and half-swallowed by earth. The badstue.
A sauna.
Leif handed her a small bundle of folded linen. Inside was a white towel — no bigger than a dishcloth — and a smooth bar of birch-tar soap. Nothing else.
She hesitated.
He just smiled, like he'd seen this pause before in others. "No one watches unless you want them to."
The air inside the sauna was holy.
Hot, yes — blistering. But not oppressive. It wrapped around her like breath, steam thickening each inhale into something almost edible. The room was dim, paneled in cedar, lit only by one lantern and the gentle hiss of water over stones.
She stood there, unsure of where to look, what to do.
Then she saw her — Ase.
The Widow Ase sat on the highest bench, spine erect, skin like parchment stretched over long, lean limbs. Her breasts had fallen softly with time, her body mapped with folds and freckles and history. But her gaze — sharp and appraising — cut through the steam like glass.
"You came," Ase said, her voice low and serene. "Good."
Astrid nodded, clutching the towel to her chest like a shield.
Ase raised one silver brow. "You'll suffocate if you hold shame like that in here."
Astrid's hands loosened.
Slowly, carefully, she let the towel fall.
There were five others in the sauna that night. Two men. Three women. All bodies laid bare like wet offerings — bellies soft, thighs dimpled, stretch marks glowing like lightning under the lantern's hush. No one stared. No one flinched. A body was just… a body.
Astrid sat on the middle bench, the wood hot under her thighs. Sweat prickled at her collarbone, then trickled down between her breasts, following the line of her navel like it had a purpose. The heat opened her pores, and something else, deeper — something she hadn't named yet.
Every few minutes, someone would rise, walk to the bucket, pour ladlefuls over the stones. The steam would rise, hissing like a moan held too long in the throat. And with each wave, Astrid felt another layer of armor melt off her bones.
Then came the vihta.
Ase stood, naked and tall, holding a fresh bundle of birch twigs. She moved to Astrid with the solemnity of a priestess and said softly, "May I?"
Astrid nodded, unsure what she was consenting to.
The first touch was light — a brushing of leaves across her shoulders. Then firmer, rhythmic slaps. Back. Thighs. Hips. The heat mingled with sting, and it made her gasp.
But Ase's voice was gentle. "Breathe, child. Let yourself open."
Astrid closed her eyes.
The birch leaves kissed the ache between her legs, her breasts, her calves. Not sexual — not exactly. It was intimate. Elemental. A return.
Afterward, her body glowed. Raw and loose.
Leif was there, too. Sitting quietly across from her, a single drop of sweat carving a trail down the slope of his chest. His eyes weren't greedy — they were curious. Gentle. As if he were listening to her body speak before her mouth dared open.
She felt it then — not lust, not even attraction. Permission.
To want.To ache.To be seen and not punished for it.
Later, they walked from the sauna to the fjord.
She was still naked, wrapped only in night and steam, feet crunching over pine needles as the others moved ahead. Ida was already in the water, laughing, her legs kicking silver ribbons in the moonlight.
Astrid hesitated at the edge.
Then Leif stepped into the water beside her, slow and calm. "You don't have to swim."
"I want to," she said.
"You don't have to want to."
She turned to him, the chill making her nipples ache.
He looked down, not at her breasts, but at her mouth. "You think desire only counts when it's urgent. But sometimes it's quieter than that."
Then he stepped deeper into the fjord. And Astrid, trembling, followed.
The water was colder than anything she'd felt, but it woke something in her — some animal reflex she didn't know she'd lost. Her limbs remembered how to float. Her lungs forgot how to fear.
And when Leif reached toward her, his hands warm from the sauna, she let them find her waist. Just that.
They didn't kiss.Didn't grope.Didn't speak.
His thumbs made small circles just above her hips. She tilted her head back, baring her throat to the stars.
And there, in the place between heat and water, silence and breath, she felt something split open — not pain, not pleasure. Permission.
The village didn't need to seduce her.
It just needed her to stop hiding.
In the distance, Ase's voice echoed from the rocks, old and amused:
"She's listening now… The fjord hears her."