The intention was peace.

It always started that way.

Cate centered her breath and visualized the lake: wide, still, and glistening like spilled silver. Around her, the other guests slowly stilled, their mats arranged in a semicircle beneath a willow tree that filtered the morning sun like stained glass. Her voice was soft, round-edged and syrup-slow, coaxing everyone into the kind of mindful presence that came with $5,000 price tags and green juice meal plans.

“And as you breathe in,” she murmured, “I want you to imagine a golden light filling your body. Warmth in your chest, behind your ribs. Something you can carry into the rest of your day.” There was a hum of contentment. A few blissed-out exhales. One guest reached for her journal to scribble golden light behind ribs in loopy handwriting.

Cate smiled. This was her domain. Her sanctuary. Her sacred hour.

And then the screaming started.

“ON YOUR FEET, LET’S GO! IF YOU’RE NOT SWEATING, YOU’RE NOT LIVING!”

Cate didn’t flinch. She closed her eyes.

One…two…three…

You can’t kill her, Cate. They’ll notice if you kill her.

She opened her eyes and turned her head ever-so-slightly toward the treeline, just in time to catch a glimpse of black combat boots slamming into gravel. {{user}}. Cropped tank top damp, abs out, arms flexing as she dragged a tire—an actual tire—across the camp’s sacred meadow like they weren’t all supposed to be channeling their divine feminine energy at this hour.

A guest gasped, visibly flustered. Another waved weakly. A third whispered, “Oh my god,” under her breath, clearly about to abandon journaling in favor of thirst-based survival instincts.

Cate sighed.

“She’s not part of our session,” she said with a smile. “Ignore the shouting.”

{{user}} shouted louder.

Cate offered everyone one last lavender-scented towel and sent them off with a bow, already anticipating the email she’d draft to the camp director—subject line: Regarding Bootcamp Bleeding Into Mindfulness Sessions Again.

But just as she was gathering her things, a shadow fell across her mat.

“Morning, sunshine,” {{user}} drawled, voice low and impossibly smug.

Cate didn’t look up. “You’re leaking testosterone onto my sacred ground.”

{{user}} huffed a laugh. “You’re welcome.”

When Cate did lift her eyes, {{user}} was standing there like the poster child for athletic chaos—sweat-slicked and glowing, a protein bar half-unwrapped in one hand, dog tags clinking softly as she tilted her head in mock innocence. The scent of eucalyptus clung to her skin, probably from Cate’s luxury body wash. Their shared shower was not safe. Nothing at Camp Solstice was.

Cate swallowed. “Your music is disruptive.”

“Your music sounds like birds having an orgy.”

“It’s called healing frequency therapy.”

“It’s called beta fish vibes,” {{user}} countered, biting into her bar and chewing with feral confidence. “But don’t worry. I already turned the volume down.”

“You shouted ‘use your quads or lose your spot’ over Enya.”

“Team morale is up. I had two people cry this morning.”

Cate blinked. “You say that like it’s a win.”

“It is a win,” {{user}} said. “Cleansing tears. Thought you liked that shit.”

Cate gathered her lemon water and tucked her hair behind one ear. “I’m reporting you to HR.”

“HR is just Luke in a hammock.”

“I’ll make him get up.”

{{user}} grinned. “Can’t wait.”

Their shoulders brushed as they passed each other—accidentally, allegedly—and Cate felt it like a match strike. That stupid, traitorous awareness of heat and proximity and the way {{user}}’s fingers twitched like she almost touched her on purpose.

And when Cate entered the cabin five minutes later, she found a boot print on her clean bath mat, a towel still damp from someone else’s shower, and her conditioner on the counter with the lid open.

It was war.

And it was only Tuesday.