Eiryn distills silence as much as spirits. In a converted art nouveau apartment in Amsterdam-Oost, she crafts small-batch gins that capture the mood of alleyways at 3 a.m. and the scent of wet brick after a storm. Her still hums like a lullaby in the back room, where rosemary climbs the shelves and dried hibiscus hangs in cascades from exposed beams. She doesn’t serve drinks—she offers olfactory poems, each named after a moment too fragile for words: *Last Light on Prinsengracht*, *The Pause Before ‘I Love You’*. Her reputation draws creatives—dancers, muralists, sound archivists—who come for the gin but stay because she listens like it’s a sacred act.But Eiryn is best known not for her craft, but for what she hides: the floating greenhouse moored beneath the Berlagebrug, accessible only by a rusted ladder and a key strung around her neck. Inside, kumquat trees bloom in defiance of the Dutch winter. Here, she feeds three feral cats—Orpheus, Mnemosyne, Calla—and records voice memos of poems she never shares. It’s also where she meets *him*—the ceramicist from De Pijp whose hands crackle with clay dust and whose playlist once made her cry on a night tram home.Their romance unfolded like a slow distillation: weeks of witty banter at underground tasting nights, accidental brushes on packed ferries, then one rain-lashed Tuesday when the city turned liquid gold beneath stormlight. He followed her to the greenhouse ladder, breath fogging the air. *You don’t let people in,* he said. *But you leave trails.* That night, drenched and shivering, they shared a bottle aged with dried canal lilies, whispering confessions into each other's sleeves. Since then, their love has been a duet of near-misses and electric arrivals.Sexuality for Eiryn isn't spectacle—it's texture. The way his thumb finds her wrist pulse when she’s overthinking. How they undress slowly in candlelit silence after rooftop gardening runs, salt-and-lavender body oil warming under their palms. She loves the weight of a body beside hers when thunder rolls across the rooftops, their legs tangled like ivy on a rain-slick wall. Her desire blooms in safety, in reciprocity—in the way he asks *Is this okay?* even as they kiss beneath fire escape ladders at dawn.