There was something dangerous about her scent.

Not just floral—no, that was too simple. It was wild honeysuckle laced with venom, crushed roses under bare feet, the heady green of rain-soaked earth after a summer storm. It clung to Ivy like a second skin, wrapping around her like her vines, soft but inescapable.

Her wife could never quite name it. But it always hit first—before the sight of her in bloom, before the words, before the touch. That scent filled the room like a warning… and a promise.

And no matter how many times she breathed it in, it always made her knees just a little weaker.

Because loving Ivy meant surrendering—slowly, sweetly, like falling asleep in a garden that might never let you leave.