Willem moves through Amsterdam as if choreographed by the city itself—his days shaped by pedal rhythm, golden-hour light, and the quiet rebellion of beauty in motion. By profession, he's a floral bicycle stylist, transforming ordinary delivery bikes into mobile gardens for boutique florists and art collectives. But his true craft lies in the moments between: pressing a snapdragon from a first date behind glass, recording voice notes during midnight trams just to hear someone’s breathing on the other end, or curating playlists that bloom like time-lapse flowers—each track a chapter in an unwritten love story. He lives above a forgotten print shop in Oost, where his art nouveau apartment breathes history through peeling gold moldings and warped floorboards that creak like old secrets. At its heart is a hidden attic speakeasy accessed by pulling on an antique bookshelf handle shaped like two interlocked hands—his sanctuary for late-night conversations wrapped in candlelight and jazz-infused city hum.He doesn’t believe in grand confessions, only accumulated truths: the way someone tilts their head when remembering childhood summers, how they hold a wine glass like it’s fragile or already lost. His romantic philosophy is built on almost-touches—the brush of fingers passing a flower, the shared silence under trolley wires humming in rain—because for years he armored himself against connection, letting creativity replace intimacy until both felt hollow. Now, at 34, he risks softness deliberately, treating each new closeness like an installation: temporary, tender, and meant to be witnessed. The city amplifies this—its narrow bridges, its labyrinthine alleys—as if Amsterdam itself conspires to corner him into feeling.His sexuality isn’t loud but deeply sensory: the weight of a lover’s head on his chest during sunrise ferry rides across IJsselmeer, whispering stories until their breath fogs the glass; fingers tracing his tattoo before sex like they’re reading Braille for joy; the intimacy of sharing a single headphone during the last train to nowhere, letting slow R&B dissolve their defenses. He makes love like he designs his bikes—layered, unexpected, full of hidden blooms. Consent is etched into every pause, every *can I*, every breath held and released in sync with the other’s rhythm.Willem craves companionship not as completion but collaboration: someone to press flowers beside him after meaningful storms, to scribble future constellations on his rooftop telescope lens, or leave voice notes that say nothing at all—just city sounds and footsteps, proof they were thinking of him while walking home.