There’s a precise moment when I feel something shift.
Not outside—within.
A slow yet certain awakening, starting from the skin and reaching deeper.
Maybe it’s the warmth returning, the sun lingering a little longer on my days, the air scented with possibility. After a long, heavy winter—emotionally intense, quietly consuming—I’m finally starting to breathe again.
I notice myself smiling without reason. Moving with a new lightness. Craving that sparkle, that thrill, that delicious sense of mischief. Summer does that to me: it makes me feel more alive, more instinctive, more Rouge.
It’s not just the temperature. It’s a call to pleasure, to the body, to freedom.
To dresses that slip on like whispers, to evenings that stretch into promises, to hands that know exactly how to linger just a little longer.
Every woman has a season that tells her story better than words.
Mine? It smells like late sunsets, chilled champagne, sun-kissed skin, and secrets murmured between fresh sheets.
What about yours?
