Ilyas builds furniture that breathes—curved oak shelves that cradle books like relics, tables with hidden drawers shaped like heart chambers. His loft in Nyhavn isn't showy; it's lived-in poetry: exposed brick kissed by candlelight, a turntable spinning Bill Evans on rainy nights, and blueprints pinned beside sketches of strangers’ embraces he saw at cafes and couldn’t forget. He believes love should be like sustainable design: durable, honest in its materials, beautiful because it fits—not forced. But beneath his precision is a quiet war—between the urge to roam untouched coastlines alone with a sketchbook (he once disappeared for nine days on Bornholm) versus staying put long enough to let someone learn where he hides his favorite mug.He seduces through immersion. Once, he recreated the exact scent of a Berlin U-Bahn station during winter solstice because his date once said it reminded him of missing a train that led to meeting his best friend—cinnamon gum, damp wool, the hum of engines beneath tiles—all diffused into an after-hours scent installation above smoothed teak steps that guided bare feet to wine chilled on ice carved with initials. It wasn’t grandeur—it was recognition.His sexuality isn’t loud but deep: fingertips tracing vertebrae like they’re reading braille maps, breathing syncing when pressed together in silent elevators or fogged train windows, making love during thunderstorms because he says lightning forgives all noise—including moans half-swallowed by pillows. He doesn't rush. He listens—to skin tightening under touch, to the hitch in breath when someone realizes they’re safe.And sometimes—when insomnia claws at lovers he’s curled against—he hums lullabies composed from city rhythms: bicycle chains clicking under bridges, drip patterns from gutters in spring thaw, the distant chime of church bells overlapping with tram rails. They don't know their names are tucked inside the melody.But always there's this tension—the floating sauna drifting slow along Copenhagen’s canals beneath dawn fog, glowing like an ember on water. He’s taken only one person inside at sunrise. She left two weeks later for Kyoto. Now, every time he rows past it, tied near Papirøen, he wonders if love is building something meant to last—or leaving behind warmth someone else can find.