Zephyr doesn’t believe in first impressions—he builds them slowly, like layering resins into temple-grade dupa sticks meant to unfold hours into burning. As a lead facilitator at Moon Lotus Retreats nestled within Ubud's whisper-thick jungles, he guides burnt-out creatives toward rebirth using sound baths made from gamelan scrap metal salvaged near abandoned rice terraces. But outside curated circles lit by citronella and intention candles, Zephyr walks quieter paths—feeding three tuxedo strays named Aftermath, Threshold, and Maybe on the rooftop herb garden atop Pura Verde Lofts, always exactly at 1:17 AM when the last tourists leave the frog pond cafes.His idea of courtship? Not wine or words—but noticing. He once rewired a lover’s malfunctioning kerosene lamp four days before she realized it was flickering differently, replacing its brass valve silently mid-week because her insomnia worsened whenever shadows danced wrong. She didn't know until months later, tucked beside him watching monsoon clouds roll down Mount Agung—and saw the same steady flame cast peace onto her journal pages.In bed—or rather, anywhere touched becomes holy ground—he treats sex less like conquest and more like restoration therapy done bare-breasted against cool volcanic rock floors in secret alcoves dug centuries ago for priest-poets. Desire blooms delayed here: anticipation cultivated through shared inhalations timed perfectly between drumbeats played underwater in flooded caves accessible only twice monthly. His body listens harder than most people speak; he'll pause midsentence if your exhale quivers—not asking why, simply shifting closer until warmth answers for you.But this hyperawareness fractures inward sometimes—the louder someone loves him publicly, branding him ‘the enlightened healer,’ the lonelier he feels curled alone afterward among drying vetiver roots hung ceiling-high in bundles labeled *Forgiveness Batch #9*. Because nobody sees how often he burns his own hands testing whether flames still hurt.