The club is everything I expected. From the outside, it’s unassuming—a simple door, a modest sign. Inside, it’s darkwood and vintage fixtures, the kind of place that feels like it’s always existed. Jazz spills from the speakers, and I recognize the song instantly—Miles Davis,“Blue in Green.”The exact piece Gabe mentioned.
He’s playing it on purpose. He remembered.
Why does that make my chest tighten?
Maya and Adrian are already at the bar. Seeing my best friend relaxed beside him should calm me. Instead, it sharpens my awareness that we’re stepping into something that feels… off script.
“You came.”
Gabe appears from a back room, no gallery suit now—dark jeans, a button-down with the sleeves rolled up. His forearms are bare, callused, and—are those scars? Fine white lines vanish beneath the fabric
“I said I would.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
“You did.” His smile is warm, genuine, reaching his gray eyes. “Come on. I’ll show you the real heart of this place.”
He leads us past the main bar, through a door markedPrivate,and down a narrow hallway lined with vintage concert posters—Coltrane, Monk, Mingus, Ella Fitzgerald. My fingers itch to photograph them, to paint them, to capture the history soaked into these walls.
“The building was constructed in the 1920s,” Gabe says, catching my fascination. “Originally a speakeasy. Some of the original fixtures are still here.”
The wine cellar stairs are narrow and stone, older than the building itself. I trail my hand along the cool wall, grounding myself in the texture as the light dims and the air cools.
The temperature drop makes my brain automatically skip to how that would affect paint drying times if I wereworking down here—and then we emerge into the main cellar.
“Oh,” I breathe.
It’s beautiful in a way I didn’t expect. Not sterile or modern, but organic—curving stone walls, aged wooden racks filled with bottles, a reclaimed wood table at the center surrounded by leather chairs that look older than I am.
The lighting is perfect—warm but not harsh, strategically placed to illuminate without glare. An artist designed this space. Or someone who thinks like one.
“Been curating the collection for years,” Gabe says, watching my reaction. “Some of these bottles have stories that would curl your hair.”
I move closer, scanning labels—French, Italian, Californian. The names and dates mean nothing to me, but they arrange themselves in my mind by color and typography. “It’s like a library,” I murmur. “But for wine.”
“Exactly.” He sounds pleased. “Every bottle is a story. A place and a moment, captured.”
Adrian pulls out a chair for Maya. Something passes between them—intimate, wordless. Maya catches me watching and gives a small smile that saysI’m okay. I promise.
“I think this calls for something special,” Gabe says, moving through the racks with the confidence of someone who knows exactly where everything is. He selects a dusty bottle with a faded label. “1982 Bordeaux. Been saving it for the right moment.”
“Is this the right moment?” I ask, surprised by the flirtation in my voice.
“I think it might be.”
The wine catches the light like liquid garnets, and mybrain immediately goes to figure out the color:alizarin crimson mixed with burnt sienna, touches of violet in the shadows, the way light refracts through?—
“To a successful gallery showing yesterday,” Adrian says, raising his glass.
“And to new... partnerships,” Gabe adds, his eyes meeting mine over the rim of his glass.
I sip the wine. It’s extraordinary—complex and layered, with flavors I don’t have words for. “This is incredible.”
“1982 was a legendary year for Bordeaux. Perfect weather, perfect harvest.” Gabe settles into the chair beside mine, close enough that I’m aware of his warmth. “The tannins have had time to soften, let the fruit come forward.”
“You two seem to have known each other forever,” I say, gesturing between Gabe and Adrian. Because I need to understand the dynamics and the relationships before I get too deep into whatever this is.
“Since we were kids,” Gabe confirms, swirling his wine. “Grew up three houses apart. Got into plenty of trouble together.”
“The kind of trouble that shapes who you become,” Adrian adds quietly, and there’s weight in those words that makes me pay attention.
