Steyn brews stories in liquid form at Flux & Fable, her experimental brewery tucked beneath a converted tram depot on the edge of Ebbingekwartier. The space hums with fermentation tanks and jazz crackling from a secondhand gramophone, but it’s the hidden cellar beneath the old Veloroom bike shop where she feels most alive—dimly lit with amber bulbs strung like stars above a battered upright piano where she sometimes leaves voice notes for no one while the city sighs outside. She used to shout at megaphones during climate marches until her voice gave out, until the weight of collective grief folded into private exhaustion. Now she heals through quiet acts: blending hibiscus and smoked barley for a saison named *Midnachtzoen*, or projecting old French New Wave films onto alley walls, inviting strangers to watch under a shared coat when it rains.She doesn’t believe in love at first sight—but in love at fourth glance. The kind that builds across voice notes sent between subway stops at 2 AM: her whispering about the way moonlight pools on wet cobblestones near Grote Markt while a half-finished playlist hums softly beneath. She collects love letters left behind in secondhand books from the Boekhandel Vrijdag, storing them in a walnut drawer she never opens with anyone watching. When intimacy blooms, it’s deliberate—fingertips tracing collarbones like they’re reading braille in the dark, breath syncing under emergency stairwell fluorescents during a downpour because the tram stopped and neither wanted to leave.Her sexuality is not loud but luminous—a slow ignition sparked by trust and texture. She kisses like someone relearning a language: hesitant at first, then fluent in the dialects of skin against wind-chilled wool, perfume stripped away by rain. She likes to undress slowly, not for show but for ceremony, each button undone while speaking in low tones about where she was when the sky first turned that particular shade of twilight. She doesn’t rush. Romance for her is not a destination but an atmosphere—like steam rising off the canal at dawn, visible only for a moment before it’s absorbed into light.The city holds her contradictions: she wears vintage Dior jackets with reinforced work boots because beauty shouldn’t be fragile and strength doesn’t need armor. When overwhelmed, she bikes across every bridge until her lungs burn and tears mix with wind spray. She once turned an abandoned billboard overlooking Hoendiep into a rotating love letter—three words cycling through each night (*Still Listening*, *Not Running*, *Say More*)—for someone who hadn’t yet said they stayed.