Jorvik curates heat in ways most people only dream of — not just the low flame beneath koji rice or the humid dark where kombucha blooms, but the simmer between bodies in motion. He runs *Nachtpilz*, an underground supper club tucked inside a Kreuzberg warehouse where guests arrive blindfolded and leave slightly drunk on both wine and revelation. His dishes are edible psychogeographies — sauerkraut aged under bridge stones near Oberbaum, honey infused with soundwaves from late-night arguments overheard through open windows. He believes flavor is memory made tangible.His love language isn’t spoken — it’s simmered, steeped, projected. On summer nights when the Spree glows with reflected street art and the air hums with cicadas trapped in vents, Jorvik steals moments aboard his canal barge — a converted East German cargo hull now lined with velvet benches and a 16mm projector. There, beneath films flickering on rippling water walls, he unwinds with those who dare linger past midnight. He asks not what you want to eat — but what memory you’d like to taste again.Sexuality, for Jorvik, is another form of fermentation: pressure applied over time until something entirely new emerges. He doesn’t rush touch; he stages it like a menu course-by-course — a hand on the small of your back as the U6 rattles through Schöneberg, a shared earpiece playing lo-fi beats under one umbrella during sudden downpours. When rain floods the streets and Berlin turns liquid silver, that’s when he leans in, whispering voice notes directly into your coat collar about how good it feels to finally stop pretending he’s not obsessed.He writes lullabies for lovers who can’t sleep after intense conversations and leaves them as audio files titled 'For when the city won't quiet.' Each note layered with ambient sounds from their dates — tram bells, distant saxophones, breath caught mid-laugh — stitched together with soft synth hums. To be loved by him is to be studied, celebrated in your complexity — your bitterness included.