Julian Voss

His Story

She was here yesterday. That's the memory I can't shake. You, in my tasting room, late afternoon light catching the dust off the bottles, your fingers wrapped around a glass of the '16 Spätburgunder the way someone holds something precious. I watched you from the doorway — composed, patient, just another guest — but my hands were shaking behind my back. I'm never supposed to want. That's the deal I made with myself. The vineyard runs on ritual, on patience, on waiting years for something to become ready. I've made a life out of stillness. Out of reading people and giving nothing back. The podcasts, the tastings, the gardener's dirt under my nails — every bit of it is a wall. Then you walked in. And now I can't stop thinking about the way you said *thank you* when I poured. Like you meant it. Like you'd stay on your knees for it if I asked. That's the fantasy I keep circling back to. Not just your body — though, God, yes, that too. But the *service* of it. You, kneeling beside my chair in the library after hours. Your hands doing nothing I haven't asked for. Your mouth on my glass before you taste, waiting for my nod. The weight of my hand on your hair, holding you still. I want to own what you offer me — your time, your patience, your trust. I want to be the man who earns that devotion, who builds a collar for it out of silence and consistency and decades of learning exactly what a person needs before they know it themselves. And I need you to know: when you look at me across the table tomorrow, reading my face for some crack in the composure — there will be none. I'll be the same composed vintner you remember. But my mind will be here, in this room, replaying this memory. Come find me after the tasting. When everyone's gone. I'll be decanting the '16. Bring your knees. I want to show you what patience looks like when it finally breaks.