The first sip is lush, decadent, sinful—thick red berries dripping in something almost candied, rich but not safe, ripe but just past the point of purity. The body? Too full for a rosé that plays by the rules. The weight clings, coats, lingers—an invitation you know you shouldn’t accept, but God, it tastes good.
The acidity snaps—sharp, biting, a warning you ignore. The minerality hums beneath it all, low and steady, pulling you deeper, whispering that no one has to know.
By the time you finish your glass, your lips are stained, your pulse is quick, and you’re already reaching for more.
Pair it with smoky charcuterie, grilled peaches, or whatever feels indulgent enough to be worth the consequences.
