Chapter 70 You are
I find the crate tucked away in a corner of the racking, marked only by a series of dates scrawled in chalk. I haul it to the center of the room, the wood groaning as it hits the heavy mahogany table.
"I spent months on these ones," I admit, my voice low. "Most are experimental, never released... I can’t quite pin them down. They're too volatile, just when I think the structure is settling, it shifts."
I grab two crystal stems and the corkscrew, setting them down. Kaden inches closer, his presence a warmth at my side that competes with the cellar’s chill. I pull a bottle from the crate and hold it up to the amber light before uncorking it with a sharp, satisfying pop.
I pour. The liquid is a deep crimson. I lift my glass, swirling it slowly, and bring it to my nose. "This one's from four years ago," I murmur. "The soil was too dry that season."
Kaden looks at me, skeptical. "You got all that just from the scent?"
"I made it, Kaden. I know the DNA of everything I own."
I set the glass back down without tasting it. I don't want my own bias to ruin the experiment. I gesture to his glass. "Try it. Tell me what you think."
He reaches out, his fingers long and elegant against the crystal. I watch him swirl the drink, his movements delicate. He breathes it in, his eyes fluttering shut for a heartbeat as he analyzes it. When he starts to bring the glass to his lips, I move.
I step around him, sliding into the space at his back. I’m standing so close I can feel the heat radiating through my own hoodie on his frame. If he leans back even a fraction, he’ll feel me. He tenses for a second, his body instinctively starting to lean back into me, seeking, before he catches himself and goes rigid.
He turns his head to the side, his pulse visible in the line of his throat. "What're you doing?"
I don't answer with words. I reach up, my palms cool as I gently cover his eyes, my thumbs resting against his temples.
"You have a remarkable palate," I whisper near his ear. "I know you’re the mind behind every drink at Orphic. It would be a crime to let that expertise go to waste when I’m this desperate for feedback."
I feel him swallow, the vibration of it traveling through the air between us. My hands stay steady, shielding him from the room, forcing his world to narrow down to scent and taste.
"Go ahead," I murmur. "Taste it."
He stays silent, then he just lifts the glass with a steady hand, tilting it back until the liquid meets his lips. He lowers the glass afterwards. I wait for the critique, for the professional breakdown I asked for, but he doesn't say a word. Instead, he tips his head back and drains the remainder of the glass in one swallow.
"That good?" I ask, my voice dropping. And then he leans back, fully this time. No hesitation. His back presses into my chest, and for a second, my brain blanks.
“Will delaying my answer keep you standing this close a little longer?”
"Piece of advice, Kaden," I murmur against his ear, "Playing with fire is only an art form if you’re actually prepared to handle the burn." I'm fighting the urge to spin him around and finish the argument with something far less verbal. "The wine," I force out instead, "Stay on track."
"It's good wine," he says, dismissing it with a careless shrug. "But you know how it is. You’ve had one, you’ve had them all."
I’m genuinely insulted.
I drop my hands from his face and use them to grip his shoulders, physically turning him until he’s forced to face me. My jaw is set, my eyes narrowing, ready to launch into a lecture on the nuance of fermentation and soil acidity....until I see it. The look on his face isn't indifference. A short, satisfied laugh escapes him, and he looks at me like he’s just won a hand I didn't even know we were playing.
I blow out a long, slow breath. "You think you’re funny, don't you?"
He reaches out, snagging my forgotten glass from the table. "Hilarious," he says, taking a defiant sip. He swirls the liquid, his eyes never leaving mine. "It’s bold, but you’re pushing the acidity too hard, it’s masking the terroir. It would be better if you let the fruit breathe before the finish." He pauses, then adds, "Though, honestly? It’s also fine just the way it is."
Before I can even process the critique, he tips the glass and finishes that one, too. I watch the movement of his throat. Then he sets the glass down and reaches for the bottle. Right...He said he hadn’t eaten. I reach into the crate, pulling out another bottle.
“We should go find something edible,” I tell him, tone steadier now. “Before you drink yourself into a coma.”
His eyes the bottle he's holding, his movements slow as he takes a small, final sip. "It's for my nerves," he admits, his voice a little thicker, a little softer. I shift my gaze from the bottle, the weight of the dark glass cool against my palm, and flick my eyes upward.
"What's wrong with your nerves?" I ask, my voice dropping into a register that feels dangerously close to predatory.
He doesn't look at me at first. He turns his head toward the expanse of the racks like he’s debating whether to answer at all. He lifts the bottle, takes yet another small sip. Then, quieter and less guarded than he probably intends....“You are.”
The corner of my lips tugs upward, an involuntary reaction I don't even try to suppress. It’s the kind of honesty that should send me running in the opposite, yet here I am, leaning into it. I step in, close the space again, and reach for the bottle. My fingers curl around it, easing it from his grip without resistance.
“That's enough,” I say, tone firm but not unkind. I hold his gaze as I take it away from him. “I much prefer you nervous.”