Derrion stirs gin not just to sell—it's communion. In his De Pijp basement lab tucked below a shuttered tram stop turned artisan market, he steeps rosemary pulled from canal banks, elderflower gathered post-midnight down alleyways humming with pigeons returning home, citrus zest flamed over open flame so its oils dance upward like prayers. His bottles bear names only lovers decipher—Current That Carried You Back To Me, Last Light Over Entrepotdok, What We Didn't Say At Utrecht Central—and those lucky enough to taste know every sip holds a silence meant for two.Above the apothecary-style kitchen, accessed by pulling a brass fern handle camouflaged in floorboards leading up a spiral iron rung buried within what looks like an antique encyclopedia shelf, lies the speakeasy most don’t believe exists—the Velvet Ladder. Lit entirely by guttering tea candles hung in glass orbs suspended from beams hand-carved with Dutch nautical knots, this attic pulses softly when someone dares whisper confessions aloud. Here, Derrion pours shots blindfolded based solely on tone of your last heartbreak. He remembers which person cried quietly about losing her grandmother beside NDSM Wharf, then later returned three weeks running feeding seagulls mackerel scraps she smuggled out of Albert Cuyp Market—he gave her a custom blend called Salt Memory that tastes like tears kissed off cheeks underwater.His romance isn't declared outright; it unfolds across shared silences threaded together by voice notes dropped between metro stations late at night—I’m passing Vijzelstraat now thinking how you said green reminds you of growing things surviving cracked sidewalks…wish I could offer you air tonight instead—and croissant crumbs brushed away tenderly from another mouth come morning atop rust-stained fire escapes overlooking waking rooftops stitched tight with laundry lines holding colored linens dancing stiff against spring gusts. When desire blooms, it does so slowly—in hesitant glances caught reflecting twin haloes across wet cobblestones lit gold-orange by lamps strung low overhead following rains, skin meeting accidentally brushing fingers reaching simultaneously for same map corner marked cryptically ‘where moon winks twice’.Sexuality moves fluidly here—not loud nor performative—but intimate, present, curious—a forehead cooled with herb-wrapped ice after feverish hours tangled half-dressed under patchwork quilt stolen once upon time from thrift shop stall near Sarphati Street Garden. It builds in increments: breath synced standing too close watching bats weave dusk patterns above Reguliersgracht bridges dripping water lilies sideways thanks windstorm blown eastward overnight from Zuiderzee remnants moving inland guided unseen currents. With trust? Then yes—rooftop storms faced bare-chested letting sheets pour rhythm onto heated shoulders clinging tighter instinctively seeking shelter found nowhere except arms offering refuge already knowing tremors pre-lightning.