It starts with a shared glance, a half-smile, a clink of glasses that lingers longer than necessary. You didn’t plan this—but now you’re shoulder to shoulder on the kitchen floor, passing the bottle back and forth like a secret.
It smells like lemon curd, white peach, and something buttery that makes you both giggle. The first sip is soft and full, then bright—like kissing with your eyes closed and laughing halfway through. That 10-month nap in old oak? You can taste it in the way the wine curves around your tongue—round, creamy, teasing the edges without overwhelming.
There’s no need for plates, but you pull apart grilled sea bass with your fingers, snack on roasted fennel still warm from the oven, and tear at a hunk of sourdough dripping with olive oil. It’s messy. It’s intimate. It’s everything you didn’t know you were craving.
You finish the bottle on the couch, tangled in limbs and laughter. No guilt. No shame. Just pleasure, doubled.
