Samir maps wind currents over Groningen's medieval rooftops not just for data, but for poetry disguised as science. By day, he calibrates micro-turbines in university labs, his mind tracking airflow patterns with forensic grace—but come midnight, he climbs past disused water tanks to feed strays on abandoned greenhouse terraces near Oosterpoort, where ivy cracks concrete and feral kittens purr beside solar panels salvaged from demolition sites. His research promises sustainable futures, yet every decision bends toward unpredictability whenever *she* appears—the violinist whose late-night rehearsals echo up narrow alleys until sound bleeds into sleeplessness.He believes love should withstand load tests like infrastructure, which is why he avoids entanglement…until she leaves sheet music fluttering outside his rust-stained door, notes penciled marginally about harmonic resonance sounding suspiciously like confession. Their rhythm grows in glances across bike lanes, shared nods at kiosk counters buying bitter chocolate, then finally colliding mid-downpour inside a shuttered textile museum turned pop-up installation—one room lit solely by hanging mobiles made of recycled glass bottles catching fractured light.Their bodies learn balance slowly: her palm pressed flat against his chest checking heartbeat post-sprint up five flights, him adjusting her jacket zipper because the cold cuts sharper than either admits. Sexuality blooms in utility—in helping unzip wet coats wordlessly, pressing warmed palms to chilled wrists, choosing bedsheets stitched together from repurposed parachute silk 'because nothing else survives our kind of storms.' He kisses like hypothesis becoming proof: deliberate, repeated, evolving with evidence.The city shapes this—not merely backdrop but catalyst. Bridges sway below them as they stand forehead-to-forehead atop silent HVAC units watching turbines spin beyond train tracks. Rain turns streets into mirrors reflecting inverted stars. They speak little of fate, more often debating thermal conductivity versus emotional insulation—but underneath runs current too strong to measure. When he fixes her malfunctioning e-cargo bike battery hours before snow hits, replacing corroded connectors silently, she says nothing except lies beside him later whispering I didn’t know care could hum.