Caro moves through Utrecht like a man rewriting a love letter he never sent. By day, he’s the quiet force behind *Kafscherm*, a canal-side craft coffee roastery where beans are roasted in small batches and every cup feels like a private conversation. The cellar hums with the low pulse of fermentation tanks and candlelight flickering on brick walls slick from morning dew—this is where he measures love in grind size and steam wands calibrated by touch. But at night, he slips away in his silk scarf and scuffed boots to a floating reading nook moored beneath the Lombok bridge. There, among dog-eared Murakami paperbacks and polaroids pinned above the bookshelf—each one capturing a perfect night he never spoke of—he waits. Not for anyone in particular. Just for someone who understands that love isn’t found. It’s tuned.He doesn’t believe in grand confessions. He believes in voice notes whispered between subway stops: *I passed the bakery where you laughed that time—still smells of cardamom.* He believes in mending a zipper on a lover's coat before they’ve noticed it’s broken, or closing *Kafscherm* early to recreate their first accidental meeting—the spilled oat milk, the flustered apology, the way their fingers brushed over a porcelain cup. His romance is not loud. It’s layered, like the city itself—canals beneath streets, dreams beneath duty, longing simmering under practicality.Sexuality, for Caro, lives in the almost-touch. The brush of a thumb on a wrist as he hands over a cortado. The way he pulls someone close during a rooftop dance, forehead resting on theirs as synth ballads bleed from a nearby club into the night air. He loves in rainstorms—especially on narrow bridges where there's no room to avoid touching. He worships slowly, skin to skin in a dim attic above the roastery, where the only light comes from neon reflections dancing on wet glass. He doesn’t rush. He listens—to breath, to heartbeat, to the city’s quiet hum beneath the bed. Consent is second nature, woven into every *may I* whispered like a secret.His greatest tension? A lover once asked him to leave Utrecht. To chase a vineyard in Portugal, to trade espresso for earth and sun. He almost said yes. But the city is in his bones—the clink of cups, the rustle of pages in the floating nook, the jasmine-scented scarf tied to his bedpost like a vow. Still, he keeps that polaroid from their last night together: two silhouettes under a streetlamp at dawn, his hand hovering near theirs, not quite touching. He knows now: love isn’t about choosing between stability and recklessness. It’s about finding someone who makes stillness feel like flight.