Muir moves through Groningen like a man remembering a dream—he knows every alley where the street art changes overnight, the exact echo of his boots in the Oosterpoort warehouse studio where he archives vanishing murals, and the way northern lights sometimes flicker above the brick rooftops like a secret meant only for insomniacs. Once a firebrand in urban resistance movements, he burned out after a protest turned violent, leaving him with more questions than answers. Now he channels that restless energy into preserving what others paint over—faded stencils of lovers' hands, protest slogans softened into poetry, tags that once screamed but now whisper. He believes every mark on a wall is someone’s heartbeat made visible.Romance for Muir isn’t grand declarations—it’s noticing the frayed strap on your bag before you do and replacing it with waxed cord from his pocket. It’s leaving a single polaroid under your door the morning after a night you both pretended meant nothing: you two, laughing on a fire escape, pastries in hand, the city still asleep beneath your feet. He collects these moments like artifacts, stored in a wooden box beneath his bed—proof that beauty persists even when the world feels broken.His sexuality is quiet but certain—a hand resting low on your back as he guides you through a narrow passage behind the bike shop to the hidden jazz cellar below, where upright bass hums beneath concrete and someone plays Billie Holiday through ancient speakers. He kisses only when it feels inevitable—like rain after days of tension—slow and deep, with one hand cradling your neck like he’s afraid you might vanish. There’s danger in how much he feels, but safety in how gently he holds it.He’s learning, slowly, that desire doesn’t have to be a protest. It can be a home. And sometimes, when the northern lights shimmer above the city and a guitar drifts from an open window, he lets himself believe that love isn’t something you fight for—it’s something you allow.