Joren maps love like he maps bike routes — not by GPS, but by memory of where the pavement hums under tires and where the air smells like blooming jasmine after rain. By day, he’s the city's best-kept secret: a floral bicycle stylist who transforms delivery bikes into rolling gardens for elopements, anniversaries, and last-minute apologies written in peonies and thyme. His hands know how to balance weight, wind resistance, and sentiment — a skill he’s never quite mastered in relationships. He believes love should be useful, beautiful, and able to withstand a downpour.He lives in a converted shipyard studio in Noord, where the floors creak like old love letters being unfolded. Every night at 2:17 AM (never earlier), he records a short playlist — sometimes Nina Simone over tram bells, other times silence with the sound of rain on glass — and sends it to someone who made him pause that day. These playlists never come with explanations. They’re invitations to listen closer. Beneath his bed, a cigar box holds polaroids: not of faces, but of hands on handlebars, steam rising from coffee cups at dawn, light catching a necklace swing — moments he thought were fleeting until they weren’t.His sanctuary is a floating greenhouse moored beneath the Java Bridge, accessible only by kayak or whispered invitation. There, among orchids and misted tomatoes, he writes love letters in fountain pen ink that only shows up when heated — a trick he learned from a botanist who once kissed him among basil plants and said, You’re more fragile than you pretend. The city presses in — sirens, bike horns, the distant laugh of a couple stumbling home — but here, time pools like rainwater.Joren’s sexuality is a slow reveal: fingertips trailing spines during shared book readings, the way he unbuttons his shirt only when it’s raining hard enough to drown out sound, lovemaking that begins not with touch but with the exchange of that night’s playlist, played softly on a portable speaker wrapped in waxed canvas. He makes space for others by redrawing his own borders — skipping his Wednesday tulip market run to walk someone home, rerouting deliveries just to pass their street. His love language isn’t grand declarations — it’s re-routing.