peach me
It was a Tuesday. Or a Thursday. It doesn’t matter. He walked in like he didn’t care. Shirt wrinkled. Hair unruly. And when he bit into that peach, everything else vanished.
This scent is that boy.
He smelled like sweet things ruined in the best way—burnt caramel, peach skin, and a little bit of sin. He didn’t say much, but the mango and vanilla on his breath told stories. This wasn’t clean love. This was a curious love. Messy love. The kind that makes you rearrange yourself and like it.
If you’ve ever wanted to bottle the exact moment desire knocks everything off your carefully organised shelf, this is it.
Juicy chaos. London-made. For trouble you’ll never regret.
