𝑮𝒆𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒊𝒂 𝑷𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉

Atlanta ain't just a city. It's a pulse.

It moves fast-rides on four-wheelers down backstreets, glides on skates at Cascade, breathes sweet like hookah smoke and peach cobbler. She's loud, but smooth. Flashy, but rooted. She'll chew you up if you not careful-but if you know how to play it, she might just hold you close.

Logan Alana Kingston knew how to play it.

South Side born, raised on grit and game by her grandma after her mama passed and her daddy dipped. Ain't nobody give her the blueprint. She had to draw it herself-lip gloss poppin', hustle in her step, and survival stitched into her every move. They called her Peaches. Not 'cause she was soft. But 'cause she was sweet and dangerous, depending on the bite.

Then there was him.

Ghost.

Northside cold with Southside presence. Name stayed quiet, but the streets? They spoke for him. He didn't need to talk. Didn't need to chase. He was the type you noticed without even trying. Locs laid. Hoodie up. Eyes sharp like he already knew your story before you told it.

They weren't supposed to collide. Different worlds. Different paces.

But the city had other plans.

A cookout. A glance. A game neither of them planned to play-but neither of them backed down from.

This ain't just a love story. It's Atlanta. Slow-burn and high heat. Fireworks in the silence. Pressure in the pause. The kind of story that'll make a man look at a girl and think-

Ain't nothin' like a Georgia girl.

This is GEORGIA PEACH.

And it starts right here.