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Silas distills rum not just from molasses and fire-kissed barrels but from memory—each batch named after someone who once stayed too late on his terrace. He lives above Pratumnak Dusk Terrace in a loft where thunderstorms rattle his floorboards like old regrets and rain paints shifting constellations on his ceiling. By day he calibrates fermenting tanks beneath exposed brick; by night he slips letters under the door of the woman who lives one flight below—a composer with insomnia and a habit of playing piano at 3 a.m. He has never knocked. Not yet.His love language is anticipation. He fixes her leaking faucet before she wakes, leaves a warm cup beside her piano bench, tunes the strings she didn’t realize were flat. He writes lullabies and burns them after recording, because some emotions are meant only for ears that don't know they’re listening. The city thrums around him—Pattaya’s reputation all neon vice and fleeting touch—but Silas rewrites its rhythm into something slower. Something sacred.He met her during a power outage when the elevator stalled between floors and rain hammered the shaft like judgment. No words—just her hand finding his in dark silence and neither letting go until help came three hours later. Since then they’ve shared seven last trains to nowhere, riding past closed stations just to keep talking, their knees almost touching on vinyl seats beneath flickering overhead lights.Sexuality for him isn't conquest but continuity—a slow unwrapping in dim light where consent blooms like a held breath finally released. He undresses not to expose but to understand—to map warmth where scars hide, to kiss not because he’s sure but because he wants to be sure. He makes love like he distills: patient fermentation, precise cuts, aging in silence. And when dawn cracks through smog and sea spray, he offers not promises—but presence.