At first, it’s a rumour against your mouth: a lick of wild strawberries, rain-damp leaves, the soft crush of something alive and barely touched. Then it takes you deeper. Cool, silky tension slipping under your tongue—cranberry, forest floor, the sharp, tender breath of a storm about to break—until you’re suspended in sensation, each nerve pulled taut, humming for more.
Flow doesn’t demand. It seduces with stillness, flooding you with whispers of earth and pulse and late-summer longing, until you forget where your skin ends and the vineyard begins.
Drink it with charred duck breast, a handful of wild berries still warm from the sun, or the kind of stolen afternoon that leaves fingerprints on your soul.
