Click.
A second later, the text hits my screen.
She lives just off campus in a brick building with peeling paint and ivy trying to eat the gutters. The first-floor lights are on when I pull up. She’s already outside, leaning against the doorframe like she’s been waiting, wrapped in a deep red coat and black heels that make her legs look endless. Her hair’s twisted into a bun, a few curls loose around her face. When she smiles, my pulse stutters.
“Hey, stranger,” she says, pushing off the frame to meet me. “You clean up nice.”
“So do you.” My eyes drag over her before I remember how to breathe. “Ready to let me spoil you a little?”
“Depends on what spoiling entails.”
“Dinner. Wine. Maybe a dance. No safewords required.”
Her laugh fills the night, low and easy. “You’re really laying it on thick, huh?”
“Trying something new.”
“Being sweet?”
“Being honest.”
She studies me for a second, and the teasing fades from her face. “I think I like that.”
The drive to Ravenwood Estates is quiet, but not awkward. Just... charged. By the time we pull onto the long gravel drive, the sun’s slipping behind the trees, and the winery glows like it’s holding secrets.
Inside, everything smells like oak, wine, and candle wax. A hostess leads us to a small table by the window overlooking the vines, and it feels too perfect, too soft, too normal for two people who met the way we did.
We order flights—reds for me, whites for her—and something easy off the dinner menu. She studies the little tasting card as if it’s a test.
“It says this one has notes of leather and tobacco,” she murmurs. “Do people actually taste that?”
“Not unless they’re licking a cigar,” I say, making her laugh.
She tastes one and scrunches up her nose. “That one’s awful. It tastes like regret and church.”
“Maybe that’s what they were going for.”
We go through the list, comparing notes like we know what we’re doing. Somewhere between the third and fourth glass, she starts talking about her degree. Her plans. Her heart for kids who need someone steady.
I just watch her. The way she gestures with her hands when she’s passionate. The light in her eyes when she says the wordhelp.
“I’m not surprised,” I say when she pauses.
“By what?”
“That you want to fix things. You have that energy.”
She tilts her head. “And what kind of energy do you have?”
“Chaos,” I admit, smirking.
She hums, swirling her glass. “Controlled chaos. There’s a difference.”
Our food comes, and conversation slips into an easy rhythm. We talk about music, travel, dumb childhood stories. She tells me about a time she tried to dye her hair purple in high school and ended up with green streaks. I tell her about the time my cousin convinced me to jump off the shed roof into a kiddie pool.
By dessert, we’re both laughing too hard to pretend this is just dinner.
When the plates are cleared, I lean back and nod toward the wall of wine bottles near the register. “We should grab a couple to take home. Something to remember the night by.”
