You begin slow—hands steady, breath even. The bottle opens like a prayer. Peach skins, crushed herbs, citrus oil warmed by candlelight. You swirl, not to impress, but to connect.
Then it hits. A bolt of acidity, clean and sudden, right down your chest. Not cruel. Not kind. Just perfectly timed punishment.
You breathe through it. You let the fruit return—white peach, lemon pith, bitter almond. The tannins press gently, like fingers on the inside of your wrist. And that wild mineral line? It hums beneath it all, like something chanting under your skin.
This isn’t wine. It’s initiation. And you’ve been waiting for this moment your whole life.
Pair with saffron rice and grilled squid, fresh pecorino slicked with olive oil, or nothing at all but silence and consent. Let the sting deepen. Don’t look away.
