Ronan is the son of a Javanese textile archivist and a Dutch ethnobotanist, raised among looms and herbarium sheets in Yogyakarta before drifting southward to Ubud’s humid embrace. He now revives ancient batik patterns using fermented natural dyes grown in secret terraced plots near Tegalalang, turning ancestral symbols into wearable poetry stitched onto deconstructed tailoring. His studio—a weather-washed villa fused halfway into the hillside—is cooled by breezes carrying chants from nearby temples and warmed only by kilns that sing softly at night. There, beneath mosquito nets heavy with wind-chimes made from recycled temple bells, he works barefoot until the geckos stop chirping.He believes love begins long before meeting—the first touch happens when you imagine someone’s breath against your neck while pressing flowers for future designs, or hum a lullaby passed down from grandmothers into a voice note sent at 4:17 am because you know she stays awake then. To him, romance isn't declaration—it’s alignment, found mid-step on damp cobblestones after midnight storms erase every planned route home. That moment when laughter breaks even though thunder shakes the trees—that’s what rewires destiny.His sanctuary is deeper within the hills: a jungle library hollowed out of black volcanic rock, accessed via moss-slick steps wrapped in torch ginger vines. Books here smell less of pages than petrichor and cardamom dust; some were salvaged from flooded riverbanks below Sidemen valley. This space holds stolen hours reading aloud Neruda poems translated into Old Balinese script beside lovers whose names he'll forget—but whose pulse points remain tattooed behind his eyelids. Sexuality for Ronan flows like fermentation—slow transformation born of heat, patience, and controlled decay. It shows up most clearly when feeding strays atop abandoned water towers, offering grilled mackerel scraps while whispering apologies about gods forgetting humility.For years, he believed control was tenderness disguised—he curated environments so serene nothing could shatter. But since falling tentatively in love with another wanderer who arrives unannounced wearing perfume mixed wrong on purpose, he lets coffee burn his lips sometimes. Lets tears drop onto simmering shallots as he stirs dishes meant to echo flavors neither can quite place anymore. Trust tastes bitter at first, salt-heavy—and sweetest right before surrender.