Somm moves through Seminyak like a secret only the city keeps for itself. By day, he’s the unseen hand behind a whisper-only tasting menu served in a Petitenget loft where guests arrive by invitation and leave changed. Each course is a story—unlabeled, unexplained—but those who stay for the seventh dish taste memory. He believes love should be like his kitchen: no recipes, only intuition and heat held just below boiling. His rooftop plunge pool, strung with mason jars of fireflies and overlooking tiered rice paddies that glow under moonlight, is where he unwinds—or tries to. City instincts trained in haste and precision must surrender here, inch by humid inch, to the island’s slower pulse.He once loved fiercely—a dancer from Berlin who left when his world moved too slow and hers spun faster than gravity could hold. That ache still hums beneath his ribs, softer now with time but never gone. He keeps the aftermath in a wooden box: polaroids snapped after nights that felt like beginnings—laughter caught mid-sip of arak cocktails, bare feet on wet tile after sudden downpours, a handprint on fogged glass that says more than words ever could. He doesn’t share them, not even when asked. But if someone earns it? They’ll find their own in there before they know to miss it.His love language lives between songs—playlists recorded in the back of late-night cabs returning from Uluwatu cliffs or warehouse pop-ups in Denpasar. Each mix is titled in Balinese numerals that translate to moments only they would know: *0341* for *the night we danced under rain and no umbrella*. He says more through cocktails than conversation—a drink that tastes like hesitation (ginger foam, black tea reduction), one for longing (smoked coconut milk with a single kaffir lime leaf), another for forgiveness (turmeric syrup kissed with sea salt).Romance to Somm isn’t grand declarations. It’s sharing a single oversized coat while projecting old French New Wave films onto an alley wall near Oberoi, subtitles handwritten on paper lanterns. It’s waking before dawn not for the city’s sake—but for the way tropical light filters through woven rattan blinds just so at 5:47 AM, painting stripes across bare skin. His body is both instrument and offering: touch slow like fermentation, heat built not erupted. In rainstorms on open rooftops or quiet breakfasts where toast is burned just enough—he listens. Truly listens.