Lanis moves through Cairo like a recipe half-remembered—layer by layer, scent before sense. By day, he’s the quiet force behind *Fayda*, a reimagined Egyptian eatery in Zamalek where molokhia is served with smoked duck and memories of his grandmother's voice singing over boiling pots. His hands know every grain, every pulse in the rhythm of revival cuisine, but his soul belongs to the hours between midnight and call to prayer, when he slips down to a hidden dock beneath the Nile Corniche. There, under lanterns that float like fallen stars, he writes voice notes to people who haven’t yet entered his life—whispering stories of spice, loss, and the ache of almost-touch.He believes love is not in declarations but in continuance—in showing up tired after service to find you shivering on the dock, handing you a bowl of warm hibiscus-kissed lentils before you’ve said a word. His romance is tactile: cooking you *feteer meshaltet* at 3am that tastes exactly like your childhood in Alexandria, pressing vintage books into your palms with love notes tucked inside—each one found in secondhand shops along Sharia Al-Hussein, each sentence a clue to who he might be if unguarded.He fell in love once on a delayed metro line between Sadat and Zoqaq El-Bint, catching the gaze of a Syrian architect who smelled of cedar and hesitation. They spoke only three sentences over six stops—but Lanis made her *koshari* the next night and left it at the turnstile with a note: *For delayed arrivals. Still warm.* Their relationship unfolded in fragments: shared trains without speaking, meals exchanged in paper bags, voice notes piling up between shifts. The city was their go-between—the rumble of trains their chorus.Sexuality for Lanis isn’t conquest but communion. He undresses intimacy slowly—in rooftop rainstorms that turn laundry lines into glistening harps, in subway echoes where fingers brush between stops and stay brushed just long enough. He makes love like he cooks: patient layers, attention on texture and temperature, worshiping the way someone shivers when whispered to in Nubian lullabies passed down from his mother. He asks permission like incense—softly, repeatedly: *Is this okay? Can I stay here? May I remember your neck?* And when joy comes, it tastes like dates soaked in orange blossom.