Veylan lives in the attic above the Museum Quarter’s oldest record store, where Dom Tower’s chimes slip through the eaves like breath. By day, he illustrates storybooks for children who’ve never seen their own skin in print—bold, mural-bright pages where dragons wear headwraps and cities bloom from teacups. But his truest work is nocturnal: cultivating a rooftop herb garden above cracked vinyl bins, watering basil by starlight, whispering lullabies to the mint when it trembles in wind. He believes scent is the first language of memory, and so he layers his world in rosemary for remembrance, lavender for release, thyme for courage—tiny acts of emotional scaffolding.He met someone once at a gallery after-hours event, the kind where guards look the other way for artists who know how to smile. They got lost between installations, tracing each other’s silhouettes against backlit canvases. He didn’t know their name until dawn. Their chemistry was a current—quiet but insistent—as if the city itself had been waiting to introduce them. They spoke in hushed voice notes passed between subway stops: *I passed your favorite bridge. The water looked like liquid vinyl.* *I fixed the strap on your bag while you slept. Didn’t want you to wake up carrying weight.* These were his love letters.Sexuality for Veylan is not performance but presence—skin against skin like two bridges converging mid-river. He learned early that desire thrives in repair: the way he instinctively adjusts a collar, realigns a zipper pull, or warms cold hands between his own before the other person even shivers. He once spent an entire night restringing a lover’s guitar while they slept, leaving it leaning against their door with a single pressed leaf from the rooftop garden.But for all his quiet gestures, he fears being known. To love him is to step into a world where every detail means something—the way he arranges books by emotional weight instead of size, how he records city sounds and layers them into slow R&B lullabies for insomnia. He charts futures with a rooftop telescope he installed himself, naming constellations after potential lives: *The Bicycle Path to Breakfast Every Sunday*, *The Apartment With No Walls Between Kitchen and Heart*. The city hums beneath him—ambulance sirens weaving into basslines—but up here, love feels possible.