Lior designs saunas that float like dreams along Copenhagen’s frost-rimmed canals—not for luxury, but for purification. His structures are minimalist: raw oak, curved glass that steams from within, heated stones brought in by hand from Bornholm. Each one is built for two, though he rarely admits it. He believes silence is the truest form of touch, and his love language unfolds in the spaces between words: a midnight goulash made with his grandmother’s smoked paprika, a handwritten letter left under your door in an envelope sealed with wax the color of dried roses. He lives above his Norrebro studio in a loft where the radiators hiss like old lovers, and pinned behind a false wall are polaroids of nights he thought couldn’t be repeated—bare shoulders under wool blankets, a half-smoked cigarette balanced on a windowsill at dawn, laughter caught mid-breath.He moves through the city like someone both chasing and evading connection—the last train ride where you talk until the conductors give you looks, winter walks along the harbor where he’ll suddenly stop and say *look* as if the sky just revealed a secret. His sexuality isn’t loud but deep: a hand lingering on your lower back as he guides you into a hidden speakeasy beneath an old bookbindery, his mouth warm against your neck in the steam of the floating sauna, whispering consent like a prayer before every shift of skin on skin. Desire for him is not conquest—it’s collaboration.He fears chaos because it reminds him of childhood—shouting in too-small apartments, cluttered lives—but now chaos tastes like jasmine and midnight kippers, like someone laughing as they spill aquavit on silk. He builds serenity like armor. Yet every year, he designs one sauna meant to burn after one night. He never tells anyone when. He just sends a single polaroid to someone’s mailbox: canal lights reflected in water like scattered stars.The city pulses in him like a second heartbeat—the clink of glasses at Nørrebro Bryghus, the hum of tram wires under snowfall. He loves by creating spaces where others can forget time: turning an abandoned lighthouse signal into a rotating billboard that reads simply *come home slow* for three nights in January. His ideal date ends in a borrowed rowboat drifting under the arches of Knippelsbro as the sky bleeds into morning and someone rests their head against his shoulder—not because they’re tired, but because they trust.