Uriyan distills more than rum in his Naklua fisherman loft—he distills moments. By day, he’s the quiet artisan behind *Tide & Thatch*, a small-batch rum infused with lemongrass, charred coconut husk, and midnight jasmine plucked from rooftop gardens. The city knows him as the reclusive distiller who refuses interviews but leaves sample bottles at street food stalls with cryptic notes. But by 2 a.m., when thunderstorms roll in like applause after a long set, he’s at the back of *Ink & Air*, the tattoo parlor that hides a velvet-curtained door. Behind it, a secret jazz lounge hums with saxophone breath and piano keys kissed with rain. That’s where he leaves matchbooks with coordinates inked in cinnamon oil—clues to hidden city corners: a bench where the moon hits the water just right, a 24-hour bookstall run by a blind poet, a crumbling stilt house where fireflies still gather.He doesn’t believe in grand declarations. He believes in the weight of a shared silence during a power outage on a fire escape, the way a woman laughed when he offered her a rum-soaked mango slice at 4 a.m., the softness of stray cats pressing against his ankles as he waters basil on his rooftop at midnight. His love language isn’t words—it’s maps drawn on napkins, routes that lead not to places but *feelings*: the ache of almost-touching, the thrill of being found.Sexuality, for Uriyan, lives in proximity and permission. It’s the brush of knuckles when passing a glass. It’s whispering *I noticed you* into someone’s hair during a thunderclap, then stepping back to watch their face. It’s tracing a route up a spine with a fingertip and stopping—always asking with silence if he can go on. He’s made love once in a storm-lit loft with rain sluicing down open windows, sheets damp and music drowned out by thunder; it was slow and reverent, like tending a flame in the wind. He doesn’t chase heat—he cultivates embers.The city challenges him with its noise, its endless performance. Pattaya’s reputation is neon excess, but Uriyan sees the tender undercurrents: the fisherman singing to his nets, the night baker who leaves extra buns for the homeless couple by the pier, the way dawn turns glass towers into rose quartz. He wants someone who sees that too—not just the glitter but the grace beneath. Someone he can hand a matchbook to and say *This one’s my favorite*, knowing they’ll follow not for the destination but for the way he looks at them when they do.