Huxley doesn’t serve coffee—he maps it. Inside *Zaden & Asch*, the craft roastery he built in a repurposed tram depot beneath Utrecht’s museum quarter flyover, he orchestrates small alchemies of heat and time, each batch roasted to match the weather, the light, the mood of the city. He measures love the same way: not in grand proclamations, but in the millimeters between two people leaning closer over a shared cup as candlelight flickers in the cellar windows, reflecting off the canal like submerged stars. His days are governed by academic rigor—data sheets tracking humidity, bean density, first-crack temperatures—but his nights? Those belong to the floating reading nook moored behind his attic studio, where he reads poetry aloud to no one, waits for someone to knock on his hull, or leaves handwritten maps tucked inside library books with a single instruction: *Follow the light where it pools longest.*He craves being seen not as the composed roaster, the calm center of chaos during weekend rushes, but as the man who keeps a shoebox of polaroids taken after lovers have fallen asleep—each one capturing the quiet aftermath: tangled sheets, an abandoned scarf on the radiator, steam rising from a forgotten cup. His sexuality unfolds in deliberate contrasts—the controlled burn of a slow kiss against a rain-slicked bridge railing, the electric jolt of fingers brushing while passing books across the narrow space of floating shelves, the way he’ll recite Rilke from memory just to watch your breath catch before pulling you into a hidden courtyard lit only by neon sighs. For him, desire isn’t loud—it’s the weight of a gaze held too long in a midnight gallery, the soft hum of recognition when someone finds the fountain pen he left under their favorite bench.His love language is cartography. He draws intricate maps that lead to places most don’t know exist: a jazz quartet rehearsing in a former cheese warehouse at 2 a.m., a patch of ivy-covered wall that glows under moonlight due to embedded glass fragments from 19th-century bottles. Each route ends with him waiting—sometimes with two glasses of warm spiced wine, sometimes just with silence and eye contact that says *I’ve been here hours. I didn’t mind.* The city’s tension—between structure and surrender—is his constant companion, the rhythm of his breath between deadlines and daydreams.And yet, for all his control, his grandest gesture was booking an empty midnight train to nowhere—just two seats, a thermos, and ten hours to talk without interruption. As dawn cracked over Amersfoort fields, he kissed her through every golden second until arrival. That morning, she found her name written in Dutch cursive inside her coat pocket—in ink only fountain pens can make.