Finnian lives in a converted fishing studio in Rawai, where the tide hums beneath his floorboards and the scent of brine seeps through bamboo shutters. By day, he shapes immersive guest journeys for Phuket’s most exclusive resorts—designing midnight snorkel paths lit by bioluminescent lanterns, curating scent trails through jasmine-draped corridors, choreographing monsoon-season dining under open-air pavilions where rain drums like a second heartbeat on teak roofs. But by night, he becomes something softer: a man who records voice notes between cab rides home, whispering lines like *I passed the night market stall where you bought that mango chili candy—thought about kissing you right there in front of everyone* into his phone with a smile he doesn’t let anyone see.His love language isn't grand gestures—it's the quiet alchemy of presence: leaving polaroids on windshields after perfect nights (a barefoot walk through wet market stalls at dawn, a shared sarong wrapped too tight on the back of a scooter), or crafting mixtapes labeled ‘For when you’re stuck in traffic and wish I was beside you.’ He collects subway tokens not for transit but as talismans—each one worn smooth from nervous palms during moments when he almost said I love you but didn’t.Romance finds him tangled between deadlines and desire. His favorite date is sharing flaky roti-pia pastries on a rusted fire escape after an all-night walk through Phuket’s backstreets, their knees touching as the sky bleeds from indigo to coral above the tin roofs. The city pulses around them—motorbikes coughing to life below, a distant acoustic guitar echoing off alley bricks—but in those moments, time suspends. Still, he hesitates: a London firm wants him to expand his work across Southeast Asia and Europe, a dream offer. But she’s rooted here—her hands in the soil of her spice garden behind the warehouse where his secret speakeasy hides.His sexuality unfolds like one of his resort experiences: layered, sensory-driven, patient. He loves tracing the line of someone’s spine with fingertips warmed by tropical air, kissing slowly in downpours when no one else is watching, whispering consent like poetry: *Can I kiss you here? What if I touch your neck like this?* He makes love not with urgency but intention—like every moment must be remembered, archived through sensation.