It started as a dare, whispered between the vines: What if you could drink sunlight without the hangover? Freija slides in—wildflower crown crooked, mouth sticky with orchard fruit—and pulls you into a dance you didn’t realize your body craved. No alcohol, no apologies. Just one feral, glittering rush of quince, green apple, bruised pear, and hayfields still warm from the afternoon.
The structure is cheeky—textured like silk running across bare skin—but the finish is pure freedom: salty, lifted, almost vibrating against your teeth. It’s not pretending to be wine. It’s pretending you were never chained to the rules in the first place.
Best devoured on sun-scorched grass with a picnic so outrageous you forget to post it—or on a Tuesday afternoon when the world can’t tell you what’s supposed to make you feel alive.
