Your Turn You had the chance. You waited too long. There’s a pause. A look. A breath held just a second too long. Now? It’s your turn—and you won’t get another one. Your Turn doesn’t rush. It unfolds. Quiet. Sultry. Confident in its silence. The opening is soft skin and tension—barely-there vanilla, a whisper of cocoa, something warm and close like the heat between two people who know exactly what they’re not saying. It’s not flirty. It’s not loud. It’s deliberate. As it settles, it gets darker. Thicker. Like sinking into velvet. Tonka bean, musk, amber—nothing obvious, but everything you remember hours later when you catch it again on your jacket, your scarf, your sheets. It smells like knowing your own worth. Like walking away from someone who thought you never would. Like giving them one last glance and letting them wonder. Was that goodbye? Was it a test? They’ll never know. You won’t explain.