She watches as it fills—
a slow, measured pour.
Amber warmth curling in the glass,
just enough to taste,
never enough to satisfy.

She wants the whole thing.
Wants to be swallowed in one breath,
held long,
kept warm in the palm of something steady.
But she knows better.

He doesn’t drink that way.
Not with bourbon.
Not with her.

So she waits, as she always does.
Takes her place beside the glass,
lets the silence press against her
like a hand she can’t quite feel anymore.

She doesn’t beg.
Doesn’t reach.
Just leans close enough
to breathe it in.

She takes her sip—
small, obedient, quiet.
Feels it burn its way down.
Lets it settle into the ache
she keeps hidden under good girl smiles
and untouched questions.

The rest stays in the glass.
Unclaimed.
Unfinished.
A reminder that some things
are only ever meant to be tasted—
not held.
Not kept.

And still, she waits for the next sip.

© Wynter Rayne 2025. All Rights Reserved.