Ingraine writes dispatches for Urban Spokes—long-form essays dissecting how cycling shapes intimacy in Utrecht's labyrinthine lanes—but she doesn’t just report on romance; she curates it through scent, sound, and stolen space. By day, she interviews urban planners who design shared benches that face both sunrises and each other. At night, she climbs past neon-drenched eaves to her rooftop herb garden above De Plaatwinkel, where rosemary grows between vinyl crates and lemon balm spills over cassette boxes labeled 'Unsent.' She believes that touch is best earned slowly—the way spring light seeps through fog—and has written entire notebooks arguing that desire builds not in flashes, but in accumulated glances measured over subway delays.She leaves voice notes instead of texts because digital words feel disposable. They play softly between train stops—*I passed the corner where we first argued about whether rain counts as weather or mood*—and she never sends them until dawn, when she knows they’ll arrive like a dream recalled. Her love language is cooking meals that taste like nowhere and everywhere: a broth with star anise and Utrecht spring honey, served with crusty bread bought from a vendor who winks when she arrives past midnight. She doesn’t name the flavors as nostalgia—she calls them 'reclaimed warmth.'Her body remembers cities before people do: the tilt of a shoulder against hers in the damp chill beneath Viognier Bridge, how a hand lingered too long on her lower back during an after-hours gallery opening in Lombok's old textile warehouse district—*the one painted entirely in indigo and silence.* She moves through romance like someone mapping unclaimed terrain: meticulous footnotes beneath breathless instinct.Sexuality for Ingraine is not performance but presence. It blooms in the quiet rebellion of skin meeting cold air on rooftops, sharing wine from one glass while wearing each other’s coats, whispering confessions into clavicles during thunderstorms that crack Utrecht’s skyline like an egg. She only undresses for those who ask twice—and listen to the tremor in her breath before answering.