"Is this… the tavern?"
Jun Shiomi stood outside the small wooden building with the old-fashioned sign:
"Drinking Alone Under the Moon."
The light from the hanging lanterns spilled onto the cobbled path, casting a faint amber glow over her glasses as she looked up, stunned. The scent of roasted meat and woodsmoke lingered in the night air, accompanied by gentle laughter from within.
Next to her, Ryo Kurokiba stood with his arms crossed, uncharacteristically calm.
"Yeah. This is the place," he confirmed. "I looked into it. Totsuki students have been showing up here a lot lately."
Jun blinked. "What? Really?"
"Yup. Word is, even members of the Elite Ten come by regularly," he added, almost smug. "And there's a special rule."
Her brows lifted. "A tavern with rules?"
"You'll see. Come on."
Ryo pulled open the door, and Jun followed hesitantly, still dressed in her usual lab coat. Her mind was tired from long days studying and cultivating irises, still missing a key breakthrough in her research. Since the Autumn Election ended and Ryo placed second—an achievement she was secretly proud of—he'd noticed she hadn't been eating well. To cheer her up, he'd asked around, and this place kept coming up.
A hidden tavern whispered about in the circles of culinary elites.
The moment they stepped inside, a wave of warmth greeted them—not just from the air, but from the soft golden lights and gentle hum of conversation. The tavern was small but filled with life: steam from freshly served dishes, the clinking of glasses, and a melody playing faintly in the background.
Jun clutched her sleeve.
This place didn't feel like a trendy spot for young chefs.
It felt… safe.
"Welcome!" a cheerful voice called out.
Jun's eyes widened.
At the counter, in neat uniforms, were two girls she instantly recognized—Sonoka Kuramochi and Takizaki Taki, second seats of the 88th and 89th Elite Ten.
"Th-they…" she stammered, tugging on Ryo's sleeve. "Those are second seats!"
"And Sonoka owns the restaurant next door—Shunkatei," Ryo added helpfully, already sliding into a booth near the corner.
Jun could barely process it. "Then this place must be…"
"Special? Probably." He grinned. "Now sit down before your brain melts."
Reluctantly, Jun took her seat across from him. Though small, the tavern's warmth eased her tension—the soft wooden interiors, the gentle glow of the kitchen, and the quiet hum of comfort food being prepared made the whole space feel like a sanctuary.
That was when he approached.
"May I take your order, guests?"
Jun looked up—and for a second, forgot how to speak.
The owner, Zane, had an elegance to him. With his neat chef's attire, refined features, and calm smile illuminated by soft lighting, he seemed more like a poetic dream than a cook. His voice had warmth, his eyes clarity—almost too much for Jun's shy heart to handle.
"I—I'll have two glasses of… mulled wine," she blurted out.
Ryo tilted his head. "Mulled wine? That's what you're ordering?"
Jun gave him a small elbow under the table. "Don't judge! I just… wanted something warm."
Zane smiled, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. "Mulled wine? We don't get that request often. But if the ingredients are available, I'll make it."
Jun's nerves eased slightly.
So the rumors were true.
Anything you want, as long as he can make it.
She watched Zane turn and walk toward the kitchen.
His steps were unhurried.
Confident.
Like someone who carried the weight of culinary artistry on his back—and walked easily with it.
Mulled wine.
The name itself carried stories—flickering fireplaces, Roman feasts, Christmas markets. First recorded 2,000 years ago in ancient Roman cookbooks, mulled wine had since traveled through Europe, gaining spices and meaning as it warmed hands and hearts during winter months.
Zane understood this deeply.
He began by taking a fresh orange and piercing its skin with cloves—sharp buds pressed into bright citrus like tiny wooden nails. He halved the fruit and set it aside, slicing a crisp apple into thin pieces, the knife making soft shuk shuk sounds.
Into a wide pot went the apple slices, the squeezed juice of the orange, and curls of lemon zest. A stick of cinnamon joined them, followed by a bottle of deep red wine, poured gently over the fruit.
The flame lit softly beneath the pot.
Slow simmering began.
Steam began to rise—wine and spice, fruit and warmth—like memories becoming tangible.
At the table, Jun's nerves began to settle. The aroma was reaching her now—distant at first, then clearer with every breath.
Sweet.
Spicy.
Comforting.
When the glasses were placed in front of them, they glowed deep burgundy, the light catching the sheen of floating zest. Each was garnished with a cinnamon stick and a twist of orange peel.
Jun reached out and cupped the glass.
Warm.
She inhaled slowly.
Fruity… cloves… cinnamon… something citrusy…
She took a cautious sip.
It was mild.
Not overwhelming, not strange.
Just… inviting.
She sipped again.
Wait… that flavor is… building!
A third sip—and her eyes widened.
"This is… amazing."
She looked down in wonder. The mulled wine was gentle, layered, sweet but not syrupy, with just enough acidity to keep it crisp. The spices unfolded like a blooming flower—first clove, then cinnamon, followed by apple, and finally the deep, dark warmth of the wine itself.
It's like a lullaby in a glass…
Zane returned, wiping his hands.
"I used a Weilong dry red for the base," he explained. "It's full-bodied, but with good fruit aroma. Works well with spices. High-end wines don't always survive the heat well."
Jun nodded. "Yes… I've always wondered about that. I used to think expensive wines made better mulled wine."
"They don't," Zane said. "Once heated, wine loses some polyphenols and trace nutrients. But we balance that by adding ingredients that contribute dietary fiber, vitamin C, and warmth. It's not about prestige—it's about balance."
Jun was floored.
Zane had just effortlessly summarized years of research she'd struggled to articulate.
She stared at her glass.
This guy is… twenty?
How does he understand all this so clearly?
The more she drank, the more she felt it:
The mulled wine didn't surprise you with one bold note.
It built itself slowly in your mouth, like a conversation.
The fruit aromas—blackcurrant, cherry, blackberry, even a whisper of green pepper—rose from the glass in waves.
Hints of oak and vanilla lingered in the back, like the scent of old books on a rainy day.
It was dark, sweet, and just spicy enough to be exciting.
And it left behind a gentle warmth that pooled in her chest.
"Zane… this is better than anything I've ever made," she whispered honestly.
Zane gave her a small, amused smile. "Then I'm glad you ordered it."
As the evening wore on, the tavern grew quieter.
Some guests leaned against the cooking station, chatting softly. Others sat side by side in corners, nursing drinks, trading stories under the warm yellow glow. A few Totsuki students entered and were greeted with casual familiarity by the staff.
Jun looked around and realized something.
This isn't just a tavern.
It's a sanctuary.
Outside, the world was demanding.
Totsuki. Research. Expectations. Pressure.
But here—inside this cozy bubble of wood, light, and spice—it all faded.
Jun leaned back slightly, eyes soft, smile lingering.
If I leave… will this moment vanish, like a dream?
Maybe this place is like a fairy tale—where the warmth lasts only until midnight.
And yet… even knowing that, she didn't want to leave.
She wanted to stay a little longer.
To drink this warmth.
To hold this peace.
To remember what it felt like when her chest wasn't tight with deadlines and frustration—but warm with wine, and quiet company.