Lycanthrope

The unusual move here is the combination of tomato and lychee, two fruits that share an almost vegetal sweetness and a similar weight on the nose. Pairing them with the green sharpness of tomato leaf and ivy pulls the fruit away from anything that reads as dessert. The dark honey and oakmoss do the rest, anchoring the sweetness in something deeper and wilder, a mossy foundation that keeps the composition grounded even when the top notes feel almost edible. The tomato fruit gives the opening its distinctive vegetal sweetness, a ripe, sun-warmed quality that catches on the back of the throat.

The evolution

The opening belongs almost entirely to tomato leaf, that sharp green-herbal smell people either find electrifying or too vegetal to commit to. Its presence is brief but defining, the first impression that sets the tone for everything that follows. Almost immediately, peach and lychee start surfacing, softening the green into something rounder and more approachable. The fruit notes arrive almost as a counterpoint to the leaf's sharpness, a sweetness that fills in the herbal edges without smoothing them out entirely. As the composition settles, dark honey, vanilla warmth, and oakmoss rise into prominence, with the ivy still threading through underneath like a vine that never quite let go. The tomato leaf eventually fades, leaving behind the honey-vanilla-oakmoss skeleton, a warm and slightly sweet drydown that reads clean rather than gourmand.