A trace of bergamot moves through it not sharp not bright in the usual way but softened as if the edges have been warmed until they turn almost creamy

The freshness never cuts
it melts

Clean linen is already there

A quiet softness slightly soapy in the gentlest way like fabric warmed by sun carrying that citrus brightness without ever becoming crisp

White flowers blur into it luminous and sheer more a glow than a bloom

Ambrette rests close to the skin soft and musky giving the brightness a body something warm to settle into

Nothing feels fresh in a cold way
nothing feels sweet in a heavy way

It moves toward warmth

The citrus fades into softness
the linen becomes skin
the florals dissolve into light

It lingers in that space where summer settles in
easy warm and continuous