Romans & histoires A Love Letter To Whiskey

Seth uses his fingers to show a "two." She nods, spinning on her heels to grab some bottles sitting on the shelf behind her, taking out to glasses with her thumb, index, and middle finger, pressing the two glasses together before placing it down onto the counter and pouring the whiskey into both of them. Seth's eyes widen after looking into her eyes as she concentrates on making the drinks. Seth's expression becomes sour, his heart straining. She looks up at Seth, arching an eyebrow, "Is everything alright?" Seth shakes his head, "No... It's fine, you just reminded me of someone."

"Wine. Red. Full-bodied." "Whiskey for me. Neat and preferably something aged for at least twenty years." "Of course you drink expensive whiskey." "I drink everything expensive, beautiful. Comes with the territory." We keep talking, small things, favorite books, worst vacations, and childhood pets while my heart beats for the unknown he plans tonight.

"Whiskey. Definitely whiskey." He pours two fingers of amber liquid into a crystal glass and sets it in front of me. The first sip burns, but it's a clean burn that cuts through the fog of hurt and anger clouding my thoughts. "Rough night?" he asks, wiping down glasses as he looks up at me. "Stupid boyfriend drama," I say, taking another sip. The alcohol is already warming my chest, loosening the tight knot of tension between my shoulder blades. Something shifts in his expression—a flicker of understanding that goes beyond casual bartender sympathy. "Ah. One of those."

Whatever it takes. In my past life, I was unable to stop self from wanting her. And again, here I am. Hard as fucking steel, her taste clouding my brain, her torn and soaked panties in my pocket. A sharp knock sounds on the door and I’m grateful for the interruption. I know it’s Julius before he steps in. “Alpha,” he says, placing a fresh unopened bottle of my favorite whiskey on that table. “Your former whiskey girl just applied at the Devil’s Halo.”

ZEUS The whiskey burns as it goes down, but I welcome it. It’s the only kind of warmth I trust. Everything else; people, promises, bonds, is fickle. A distraction. A liability. I sink deeper into the armchair, swirling the amber liquid in my glass, watching the light fracture through it. The silence in my room is thick, like smoke after a war. The kind that settles after something destructive has already been set in motion. And it has. My plan.

I said. “You were just in love” Maren said, “Stupidly in love” I took a sip out of the whiskey. “Yes, maybe but I guess we are both at that stage” Maren chuckled, “I can't believe you were in love or maybe still in love” she gave a tight smile. “Everyone won’t believe to everyone I am just a playboy” I said to her while taking another sip of the whiskey. “I will say we are both unlucky when it comes to love” Maren said, she took the bottle of whiskey from me and sipped out of it for the first time.

Truly, rum makes you a complete scoundrel, whiskey cheers you up and tequila makes you crazy. "Are you sure you can----" "Relax, Mr. handsome, I'm not drunk!" I wiggled my eyebrows. "Not yet!" and I giggled again. "I have a question and I want you to answer me with your honest opinion." He looked at me, confused while pouring another shot in my glass. "What if you fall in love with someone you shouldn't love? What will you do? Will you stop even when you know you can't and you will only hurt yourself, or will you continue to love him even when you know he can't love you back no matter what you do?"

My eyes scan the bottles, desperate for something—anything—to drown out the ache that’s building inside my chest. My fingers settle on a bottle of whiskey—Macallan, strictly for 18-year-old, the strongest thing I can find. I unscrew the cap, not bothering with a glass, and take a long, burning swig. The liquor slides down my throat, searing its way through my veins, but it’s nothing compared to the fire of rage and hurt that’s eating away at me. I take another swig. And then another. This is what liking someone does. This is the mess it makes of you.

My lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile as I typed back a single character: "✓" The grandfather clock in the corner chimed twice - 2 AM. The witching hour when secrets felt heaviest and resolve wore thinnest. I stood abruptly, my chair scraping against the hardwood, and crossed to the liquor cabinet. The crystal decanter caught the moonlight as I poured two fingers of amber liquid, not bothering with a glass. The whiskey burned its way down my throat, but the heat couldn't melt the ice in my veins.