Suwen lives in a glass-walled greenhouse apartment perched above a Frederiksberg courtyard where climbing jasmine brushes the ceiling each June. By day, he designs furniture from salvaged ship hulls and demolished school desks—each piece a quiet rebellion against disposability. His studio hums with the rhythm of hand planes and circular saws muted by felt-lined enclosures because he believes serenity isn't passive—it's defended. He cycles everywhere on a midnight-blue cargo bike lined with tool drawers instead of toddler seats, its bell tuned so it sounds more like wind chimes than warning.He finds love inconvenient at first—a disruption of carefully calibrated mornings: the precisely timed kettle whistle, the single pour-over coffee steaming beside a sketchpad open to an armchair made from dock pilings. Then comes Elara: laughing too loud at his threshold after locking her keys inside their connecting loft space, wearing rain-soaked overalls and holding two paper cones of warm æbleskiver. He fixes her broken window latch before she asks, waking at 5am to sand down swollen oak while she dreams just two walls away.Their romance blooms through accidental proximity—notes slipped under doors written in Danish proverbs translated imperfectly into intimate metaphors (*A chair is only strong when both legs surrender equally*). They slow dance on rooftops near midnight, wrapped in wool blankets while Copenhagen pulses below in flickering amber. His sexuality unfolds not through urgency but patience—the first time tracing scars across Elara’s back made by childhood surgery with linseed-oil-soaked fingers meant for wood grain, learning that healing doesn’t mean erasure but integration.He keeps polaroids in an old film tin labeled *Unplanned Warmth*—each one taken minutes after something broke: a teacup rim chipped during argument turned makeout session, Elara crying softly after her father’s call then laughing mid-sob when he handed her socks knitted from unraveled sweaters. The subway token around his neck—smooth from years of nervous turning—was hers once; she dropped it near Nørreport Station the night they admitted wanting more than convenience. He picked it up like a promise.