Nanette lives where the Oudegracht’s stone arches exhale centuries-old damp into the air and spring blossoms spiral down like whispered promises. In a converted underground wharf chamber beneath a silent bicycle warehouse, she runs a clandestine tasting room where lovers come not for wine, but for *smell*—for vials of hand-blended perfumes that capture the exact scent of a shared silence, the musk of rain-soaked wool after midnight cycling, or petrichor rising from cobbled courtyards after an April storm. She calls them *emotion distillations*, and they are never sold—only gifted to those who stay until dawn.By day, she’s Nanette van Dijk, cycling advocacy journalist whose columns in *De Stad op Wielen* crackle with quiet fury and poetic precision. She writes about dedicated bike lanes like love letters: impassioned defenses of space, timing, and momentum. But at night, she becomes something more elusive—a woman who maps desire not through touch alone but through aroma, memory, and absence. She collects abandoned love notes found in secondhand books from Lentestraat bookshops—fragile slips tucked inside dog-eared poetry volumes—and tucks them into a lacquered box beneath her bed, each annotated with the scent she imagines it carried.Her romance philosophy is built on *proximity without collision*—the way two bikes draft behind each other on parallel paths, close enough to feel the heat but never touching. She once designed a date that led her lover through seven hidden courtyards, each stop releasing a new scent: crushed mint, burnt sugar, wet stone—building a narrative of unspoken longing. They ended on a fire escape overlooking the Dom Tower as pale pastries steamed in their hands and dawn broke in lilac streaks across the sky. She kissed him only after he whispered what each smell had meant to *him*. Consent was not asked—it unfolded.Sexuality for Nanette is an architecture of anticipation—how fingertips hover above skin before contact, how breath changes when two bodies sync beneath shared blankets during a rooftop thunderstorm. It’s feeling her lover's pulse through his shirt while standing pressed together on the Neude tram platform at 2am, both of them drenched and laughing. Her love language isn’t confession; it’s creating immersive experiences that make someone feel seen even if they never speak aloud.