I Can Taste Good Wine
1167 Words
Isadora pressed a palm into her chest, trying to trap the rising panic beneath her ribs. But it kept climbing. Her knees gave out, and she sank to the floor, back hitting the elevator wall, her breath now sharp and ragged.
Sebastian crouched instantly. His sarcasm vanished like vapor.
“Hey. Carrington. Look at me.”
She didn’t. Her eyes were wide and far, fixed on something that wasn’t there. Her fingers trembled as they clawed at her collar, as if air were slipping from the room.
He took a slow breath. Kept his voice steady.
“Okay, you’re not dying, alright? There are air vents right above us. You’re breathing. We’re breathing.”
Still no response. Her breathing sped up.
“Carrington,” he said.
She blinked. The briefest flicker of awareness. He grabbed hold of it.
“Listen to my voice, look around you and tell me what you see. Speak up and be clear. Five things you can see. Right now. Say them out loud.”
Her lips parted, slow and shaky.
“Lights… elevator door… air vent… floor buttons…”
She paused, eyes settling on him.
“Sebastian Blackheart.”
“That’s it,” he said, his voice calm, but something in his chest jolted. “Good. You’re doing great.”
“Four things you can touch,” he said, gently but with certainty. “Touch them. Say them.”
She looked down. Pressed her palm to the cold floor.
“The floor. It’s cold… the railing. Steel. My bag. It’s my mom’s…”
She stopped, fingers hovering in the air, searching. Then, without looking, she reached toward him — and her hand found his.
Sebastian didn’t flinch. He tightened his grip just enough. Let his thumb brush across the back of her hand in slow, reassuring strokes.
“That’s four,” he murmured. “Perfect.”
“Now three things you can hear.”
She took a breath, slower this time.
“Your voice… the air conditioning… and… the beeping outside.”
With each question answered she got control of herself steadily.
“Exactly. Good. Two things you can smell.”
She hesitated, nose wrinkling faintly. Then—
“My coffee breath. And… your scent.”
His breath caught, just briefly. He said nothing.
“You’re almost there,” he whispered. “Now—one thing you can taste.”
She ran her tongue along her lips. Tried. Swallowed. “I can’t taste anything. I—I can’t—”
Her voice pitched up again, panic threatening to return.
“Hey. Hey, it’s okay.” He reached into his bag with one hand, the other still linked with hers. He pulled out the bottle of wine he’d brought earlier.
She looked at it like it was absurd. But then her fingers loosened from his and reached. She tried to twist the cap, failed.
“Here,” he said, taking it gently. He uncorked it in one smooth motion, handed it back to her.
She took the bottle with both hands. Then lifted it to her lips and took a long sip. Her face softened. Her body loosened just slightly. Her free hand slid instinctively across the floor until it found his again, her fingers curling around his with the familiarity of something unspoken.
She let out a sigh, eyes closed. “Wine,” she whispered. “I can taste good wine.”
“Yeah,” he said softly.
She chuckled faintly. Her head lolled to the side and rested on the elevator wall. He didn’t let go of her hand. Neither of them seemed to notice. Minutes passed. She sipped. Again. And again.
She had finished drinking more than half the bottle. Her hand didn’t move from his. And softly, like a thread slipping loose in the dark, she murmured something unintelligible. Her body tilted gently toward him. He turned his head.
“Isadora.”
She was asleep.
The lights snapped back on with a quiet hum. The elevator jolted slightly, then held still.
Sebastian blinked, adjusting to the brightness. The moment stretched thin, unreal. Isadora stirred, her lashes fluttering. She blinked once, then twice, disoriented. Her fingers were still laced with his. When she looked down at their hands, something shifted in her eyes; not embarrassment, not quite — just a hazy awareness.
“We’re back,” he said quietly.
She nodded, slow and sleepy. Then she moved to stand.
The second she put weight on her feet, she wobbled.
Sebastian reached out instantly, steadying her by the waist. She let him. Her heels clacked awkwardly on the floor, one slightly askew, and she gave up on grace altogether, leaning into him.
“You’re tipsy,” he murmured, half amused, half concerned.
“Am not,” she said, too fast and too soft to be convincing.
The elevator doors finally opened with a sigh.
The building was silent. Dark. Empty. Echoes of the outage still hung in the air. He walked her out slowly, arm around her shoulders, her head occasionally brushing his shoulder as they moved. Every time she straightened up, she drifted sideways again.
“Where’s your driver?” he asked, glancing toward the parking circle.
She shook her head. He glanced around. No movement. No staff. No security. Just the hollow hum of emergency lights.
“Alright,” he said.
They reached his car. He opened the passenger side for her. She hesitated.
“Where… where are we going?”
“Home,” he said, buckling her in before she could protest.
She grabbed his wrist as he reached for the seatbelt latch. Her voice cracked around the edges.
“No. They can’t see me like this. I’m better than this…”
She swallowed. Her eyes, glassy now, stared at him.
“I’m not a woman who drinks on the job. I’m not—this.” Her voice broke on the last word, and a tear slid down her cheek. “I’m working. I was working. I don’t—”
He paused.
Then quietly, firmly, he clicked the seatbelt into place.
He looked at her for a moment, and didn't say anything more. He closed the door gently, like she might shatter.
When he slid into the driver’s seat, she was quiet. Her hand rested palm-up on her lap, fingers curled loosely, as if unsure whether to reach for him again or retreat.
He said nothing, just started the car, pulled onto the road, and let the silence stretch between them.
It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t heavy. It just was.
She exhaled softly, turned toward the window. The city passed them in a blur of white and amber lights.
Within minutes, her breathing slowed again. Her head lolled sideways against the seat, the tension slipping from her shoulders, the last tremors of panic giving way to exhausted stillness, her hand unconsciously moved and stopped only once it grabbed his hand. Sebastian was slightly startled, but didn’t let her go.
He glanced over once, briefly. And he continued driving.
- Writer
