I skim their menu, satisfied to see that they don't seem to have anything close to what I'm brewing in the Arborium. “Hm…” I hum, thinking about what Iris might like. It's hard for me to decide; nothing could be as sweet as her.
Gods, I'm fucked.
“When was the Seven Warriors honeymead bottled?” I ask.
“Three months ago.”
“Two glasses of that, please.”
The bartender nods and steps away, and Iris whistles when she finds the mead on the menu. “Pricy…”
“It's a special occasion,” I tells her. “And don't worry—it's on me.
“But I wanted something I could drink a lot of…”
I chuckle and shake my head. “You don't need a lot. You're such a lightweight you'll be falling asleep on your feet after a couple glasses of this stuff.”
She elbows me in the thigh. “And you’ll be awake to carry me home.”
That’s the problem: I will.
Because I always do.
The bartender slides two glasses across the counter. Iris takes hers, raising it in a mock toast. “To unexpected reunions.”
I don’t hesitate. I reach down to clink my glass against hers. “To unexpected reunions.”
She takes a sip. Her nose scrunches slightly, lips pressing together like she’s weighing the taste.
I tilt my head. “Good?”
She considers. “Tastes like…autumn.”
I take a slow sip of mine. It’s thick and golden, rich with honey and spices, smooth but deceptively strong. It settles warm in my chest, but not as warm as the way she’s watching me, eyes bright, expectant.
I swallow, setting my glass down. “Autumn, huh?”
She nods. “Like…crisp air, golden leaves, a little bit of fire in the hearth. Cozy.”
I don’t say it.
Don’t say that cozy is the exact word I would use to describe her.
Instead, I take another sip. “You always were poetic about your alcohol.”
She grins. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
I shake my head, a smile pulling at my lips. “Never.”
Iris shivers as we step away from the bar, her small hand brushing against my forearm.
“Let’s find somewhere warm,” she murmurs, glancing around the crowded room.
She wants warmth.
I want distance.
And yet, I follow.
