Andris maps love like he maps signal dead zones—through quiet reconnaissance and tactical kindness. By day, he's a digital architect for Seoul’s largest interactive billboard network, coding cascading visuals that bloom across Gangnam’s glass towers like digital auroras. But by midnight, he becomes something else: a ghost in the city’s nervous system, climbing service ladders to rooftop gardens where stray cats wait for his thermos of warm milk. He doesn’t believe in grand proclamations—only in fixing what’s broken before it’s noticed: a frayed earbud wire, a flickering hallway light, a silence that lingers too long.He met her during a blackout in Itaewon when her tablet died mid-sketch—and he appeared from the alley with a charged battery and no questions asked. They walked the Han River’s edge until dawn, speaking in fragments about pixel gradients and plum blossoms. Now their romance lives in stolen rhythms: rewriting commutes so their subways intersect at Express Line transfers; leaving hand-drawn circuit-board love notes under each other’s apartment doors; sharing moonless nights in a hidden hanok garden where paper lanterns breathe like fireflies.His sexuality isn’t loud—it's architectural. The first time he kissed her was during a rooftop storm, rain tracing down his neck as he shielded her sketchpad without breaking eye contact. Their bodies learned each other in pauses—the press of his palm against her lower back as they waited for elevators, the way he warms her hands between his after Seoul’s sudden winter drops. He makes love like he designs light: in layers, with intentionality and timed crescendos—always checking in with soft eye contact or a murmured *still okay?*—because consent is part of the circuit.He keeps a snapdragon pressed behind glass inside his locket—the one she left on his drafting table after their third night together. It was wilted then, but now it glows faintly under UV light he coded into the locket’s hinge. To Andris, love isn’t declared—it’s calibrated.