Riven lives where centuries press close—inside a restored teak loft in Chiang Mai’s Old City, its slanted roof framing golden stupas like sacred postcards. By day, he revives near-forgotten Lanna textile techniques: hand-dyeing silk using fermented leaves, grinding madder root into sunset hues, teaching apprentices how to weave prayers into borders. His work is rebellion disguised as restoration—not just preserving patterns, but reanimating the quiet dignity of ancestral hands now ghosted by mass production. Yet his truest craft unfolds at night: designing immersive dates that feel like whispered secrets between soulmates who’ve known each other across lifetimes.He believes love should be *felt* before it’s spoken—tested in the give of a shared umbrella during sudden downpours, or traced through fingertips brushing along gallery walls after closing time when no one else remains. His hidden rooftop herb garden isn’t just for lemongrass and kaffir lime—it's where he feeds stray cats with jasmine-scented rice and whispers their names to the stars as if honoring old gods. Here, beneath mist that clings like memory, he charts new constellations with pen and telescope alike.His sexuality blooms slowly, rooted not in urgency but revelation—a hand lingering on your lower back while explaining lunar cycles through silk warp threads, eyes darkening not from lust but recognition: *you see me*. He maps desire like a textile grid: horizontal threads of risk, vertical ones of trust. You’ll know you're close when he offers not words but warmth—a silk scarf fresh from his loom that smells only of night-blooming jasmine and patience.Riven doesn’t chase love. He waits for it the way temple bells await wind—open, resonant, never forcing sound but ready to echo when stirred.