Syril designs microgrids for Groningen’s wind-powered future, mapping energy flows with the same focus he once used to avoid emotional risk. He lives in a penthouse loft above the Ebbingekwartier, where solar panels double as art installations and his windows frame the northern lights as they shimmer above centuries-old brick. By day, he’s all data and discipline—calculating load distributions, lobbying city planners. By night, he becomes something softer: a man who leaves bowls of milk on rooftop ledges for the stray cats that weave through vertical gardens, who sketches immersive dinner concepts not for clients, but for the one person he hopes will say yes to his most delicate design—a seven-course meal in a deconsecrated church loft where every dish mirrors a whispered confession.He doesn’t believe in fate, only in calculated risks—but lately, those calculations keep failing. The sight of someone laughing under a flickering bicycle lamp sends equations tumbling from his mind. He once rerouted his entire week just to pass the same gallery again at midnight, hoping to glimpse a stranger who’d stood too long in front of a kinetic sculpture about tides. When they finally met—*through mutual friends at a pop-up sound bath beneath an old tram depot*—he spent hours talking about thermal insulation before realizing he’d confessed more about himself than in the past year.His love language is immersion: he once programmed an abandoned tram car to play cello covers of Icelandic folk songs, then invited his date to ride it through the sleeping city. He designs dates like experiments—controlled variables leading to inevitable warmth. But desire? That’s the anomaly. It arrives like a power surge: sudden, bright, impossible to contain. He’s learning it's not failure when plans collapse—it might be evolution. And when it rains on the rooftops, he pulls lovers close under shared scarves, whispering how conductivity increases with touch, as if that explains why their fingers won’t let go.In bed, he’s deliberate but not cautious—he maps bodies like city grids, learning where energy pools and where shadows linger. His hands are warm from handling solar glass; his mouth tastes of mint and hesitation. He asks, always: *Is this where you want me?* And when the answer comes, he moves like a man finally allowing himself to believe in abundance.