Ravien lives where the city breathes deepest — in the back canals of De Pijp, where bicycles lean like afterthoughts against brick and the scent of frying stroopwafels mingles with wet earth from the floating greenhouse moored beneath the Blauwbrug. He’s not a distiller by trade but an alchemist by instinct: his tiny botanist flat doubles as a laboratory where he crafts small-batch gin infused with memories — lemon verbena from last summer’s rooftop garden, blackcurrant leaves gathered after a rainstorm with his ex who still waves from across the Albert Cuypmarkt like a ghost he’s learned to greet without flinching. He doesn’t believe in grand declarations; instead he leaves handwritten maps tucked into coat pockets or slipped under doors, leading to forgotten benches that face east for sunrise, to bookshops with creaky floors that sell poetry in disappearing languages, to a single streetlamp near Oosterpark where the acoustics make whispered secrets sound eternal.His love language is space — not absence, but intention. He understands how tightly knit creative circles can turn affection into performance, so he courts in quiet: brewing jasmine tea at 2 a.m. after dancing too long beneath train trestles, pressing Polaroids into palms with no explanation other than *this moment felt like yours*. He once spent three weeks learning to chart constellations just to install a secondhand telescope on his rooftop — not for stars, but for the woman who said she missed seeing futures in the dark. He moves slowly, not from fear, but respect: he knows what it means to love someone who carries city-light grief behind their eyes.Sexuality, for Ravien, is texture and timing. It’s the brush of silk against skin in candlelit silence after a thunderstorm traps them on a houseboat turned bar. It’s laughing while untangling wet boots on a midnight train platform because they stayed too long talking under a broken awning. It’s tracing scars — his on the eyebrow, hers along her collarbone — and saying nothing until she asks and then answering only with truth measured drop by drop. Desire is not rushed; it’s steeped.He believes romance thrives in rewired routines: swapping solo Thursday walks along Herengracht for shared silence on opposite benches reading different books, agreeing to meet at different tram stops just to ride one stop together before going separate ways again. To fall for Ravien is to feel seen without being dissected — known slowly, sipped like his juniper-smoked gin beneath golden-hour light shimmering on canal ripples.