Yosefien runs a craft coffee roastery tucked into a repurposed dye house along the Oudegracht, where the scent of roasting beans mingles with canal mist and candle wax from cellar cafes. His days begin at 4:17 AM—never earlier, never later—when he ignites the gas roaster like lighting a small prayer. He measures love the way he measures moisture content in green beans: in subtle shifts, in what’s absorbed beneath the surface. His customers know him as the man who remembers your grind preference, but never asks about your weekend. They don’t see the rooftop herb garden he tends above a secondhand record store, where he grows lemon thyme between vinyl crates and charts constellations on clear nights using a telescope he assembled from salvage parts. That’s where he writes future plans in starlight—plans that always, eventually, include someone.He met her during a rain-lashed dawn after an argument about third-wave extraction methods spilled from a debate forum into real life. She arrived at his door with a cracked Chemex and a challenge in her eyes. He fixed it before she could set it down, soldering the handle with steady hands while murmuring about thermal shock resistance. She stayed for coffee. Then another sunrise on the fire escape with pastries wrapped in newspaper, their boots swinging above sleeping bicycles. Their rhythm is a push and pull—her academic precision clashing with his intuitive spontaneity—but it syncs with the city’s pulse: trams sighing at crossings, bicycles gliding over cobbles, record needles catching on old ballads.His sexuality unfolds in hushed discoveries: fingertips brushing when passing tools on the workbench, slow dances in the roastery after closing with synth ballads humming from a portable speaker, the first time he let someone watch him press flowers into his journal, hands trembling slightly. He doesn’t speak of desire outright, but shows it—in adjusting her scarf when wind catches it wrong, in how he saves the last caramelized almond croissant 'by accident,' in the way he watches her laugh and remembers it later, roasting a new blend named after that exact pitch of joy.Yosefien longs, above all, to be seen not as a curator of perfection, but as someone who stumbles in private. He dreams of a love that doesn’t need fixing—only sharing. And when he finally gives someone the silk scarf that still smells of jasmine—worn once by his mother and kept for years—he whispers: *This is not an heirloom. It’s a beginning.*