“At restaurants. After work,” she counters, amused. “Or rushed coffee meetings squeezed between flights and boardrooms. This—” she gestures around the kitchen, warm and relaxed, “—you coming over, like this? It’s different. We need more of it. You need more of it. Come by more often, Dorian.”
“Maybe...” I murmur, my voice trailing as I glance down at the woodgrain of the table.
And for the first time in a while, I feel something loosen inside me. Not comfort, but close enough.
* * *
There’s not a single book here—only shelves lined with bottles. Dark glass. Deep amber liquid. Names in elegant fonts, some in Italian, others in bold American print. Old bourbons, rare Grappas, even a few limited-edition Scotch bottles.
David’s collection isn’t flashy. It’s intentional. Every bottle has its place, like a memory preserved in glass. This is the place where he unwinds, thinking of all the stories lived—or shared—over a glass of what he likes to call ‘bottled truth’.
He runs a hand slowly over the shelves, letting his fingers touch each bottle, each label, as if waiting to feel which one calls to him. He always does that. A quiet ritual.
He finally selects a bottle from the middle shelf—Blanton’s Single Barrel—and holds it for a moment, almost like greeting an old friend.
“Not the rarest,” he says, pouring two glasses, “but it’s honest. Some things don’t need to be expensive to be worth keeping.”
I take the glass without a word and sink into one of the worn leather armchairs—deep, soft, familiar. David settles into the one across from me, the low table between us.
Flor curls up on a pale fabric sofa nearby, one leg tucked under her, her drink in hand, completely relaxed in her favorite corner of the room.
David lights a cigar, slow and steady, every movement unhurried, almost like a quiet ceremonial. He offers me the box, tilting it slightly in my direction.
I shake my head, declining, and he simply smiles, saying nothing more.
He leans back, takes one slow drag, and the smoke curls lazily toward the ceiling, settling into the corners of the room.
Then, without circling around it, he asks—steady, direct, no judgment in his voice.
“How bad is it?”
I don’t answer right away.
I stare at the whiskey in my glass, slowly swirling the amber liquid between my fingers.
“Bad,” I admit at last, my voice low and rough.
I swallow hard, letting out a breath that feels like it’s been trapped for days.
“She agreed to see me,” I say plainly—no dressing it up, no pride in it.
David watches me, steady as always, his gaze quiet but sharp. Flor raises an eyebrow, leaning back against the couch.
“And that’s bad?” she asks, her tone warm but serious, no teasing—like she already knows there’s more under the surface.
I let out a sharp exhale, running a hand through my hair.
“Yes, because it’s nothing like I expected,” I mutter. “I’ve tried talking to her twice since the club. At her hotel. At the restaurant. She’s been so… different. Indifferent. So finally, today…”
My voice hardens. “I cornered her at her office.”
David lets out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair. He doesn’t speak right away—just rolls the glass between his fingers, eyes trained on the slow swirl of amber. Then he looks up, his gaze steady.
“Bold move, my friend.”
His tone is calm, but there’s a quiet gravity to it—like he’s weighing the cost, not just the intent. He doesn’t scold. Just watches me with that sharp, steady focus that sees more than I say.
“I didn’t see another way,” I mutter, gripping the glass tighter, the frustration knotting deep in my chest.
