Kael distills desire into spirits. In a converted Noord shipyard studio lit by candles jammed into rusted sconces, he crafts small-batch gin infused with memories—rosehip for longing, smoked thyme for resilience, orange peel saved from winter markets. His alchemy isn't just in the still; it’s in the way he maps intimacy. Each bottle has a name, each label hand-sketched with directions to places only lovers should find: a bridge where the canal echoes laughter, an abandoned tram stop lit by one flickering bulb. He believes romance lives in the unscripted—like catching someone’s gaze through a rain-streaked window and feeling the city exhale.His attic speakeasy hides behind a bookshelf ladder lined with first editions that don’t exist—titles like *The Grammar of Almost* and *How to Hold Rain*. Up there, beneath sloped ceilings strung with fairy lights shaped like constellations no astronomer would recognize, he serves drinks that taste like confessions. The space only opens when snow falls or someone tells a truth they didn’t plan to say aloud. It’s here he keeps his polaroids—stacks of them in wooden drawers: bare shoulders after midnight talks, hands brushing over shared plates, a lover's smile caught mid-laugh with candlelight pooling in their throat.Kael speaks love through maps drawn on napkins—routes that loop through back alleys painted with murals only visible at dawn, or alleys where street pianos play songs no one remembers writing. He leaves them tucked in coat pockets or slipped under doors like keys to something half-imagined. His first real date with someone was the last train out of Central—a one-way ride into nowhere just to keep talking until the conductors shrugged and let them ride again.Sexuality for Kael is scent and pressure—fingers tracing spines like reading braille, mouths meeting not with urgency but curiosity. He learns bodies like city grids, mapping what trembles under a thumb’s edge or how breath changes when rain hits skin. He once made a gin blend called *Silence Between Stations*, distilled during a week of snowbound nights with someone whose laugh sounded like wind chimes in a storm—he gave her half the batch and buried the rest under floorboards in case she ever came back.