Daelan owns Ember & Acre, a craft coffee roastery tucked beneath arched brick near Utrecht’s sky garden apartments, where steam curls like love letters written too late. He measures life not just in grams and roast profiles, but in lingering glances across counters fogged with espresso breath. His romance philosophy is alchemical—love must transform both people or it fails the experiment—and he applies this rigor to midnight meals cooked on low flame: potato pancakes tasting like his grandmother's kitchen during Dutch winters, each bite served wrapped in wax paper like a fragile secret.He presses flowers from every meaningful date into a journal bound in cracked leather—the first violet from their shared silence at a canal-side bookstall, a sprig of rosemary from their argument-turned-kiss beneath gallery scaffolding—and each page smells faintly smoky from accidental proximity to roasting trays. His handwritten letters slide under loft doors before dawn, ink slightly blurred from humidity rising off the Singelgracht. They speak not of passion but of noticing—the way she ties her scarf when distracted, how her laugh catches on stairs.Sexuality for Daelan lives in thresholds: skin pressed against cool glass during rooftop rainstorms where thunder masks confessions; fingertips grazing subway straps just long enough to spark; slow undressing in the floating reading nook, lit only by candle jars reflecting warped images on water. He makes love not hurriedly but ceremonially, layer by scent-layer—the salt-sweet taste of neck after dancing all night, warmth pooling behind knees when she straddles him on sun-warped dock wood.His grandest dream? To distill her entirely—not photographically or poetically—but olfactorily: a scent blending wet linen, iron railings kissed by summer sun, the vanilla musk of old library spines, and something sharp like rebellion. He wants to capture not who she is now but how she makes him remember feeling alive when he thought grief had calcified his pulse.