Jorin distills rum not just from cane but from memory—each batch a flavor of time and tide. His loft in Naklua hums with the quiet industry of an artisan who treats love like fermentation: something that must be sealed tight, left to transform in darkness. He lives above his distillery, where copper coils gleam under neon strips and the Gulf breathes against his windows like an old lover. The city pulses around him—tuk-tuks stuttering down Soi Naklua, the distant thump of beach clubs—but he moves in slower measures: pressing frangipani from their first date into a leather journal, recording voice notes between 2 AM cab rides to send as private playlists titled *For Late Nights When You Miss Me*. He met her on the abandoned pier during a power outage, when the city’s glow vanished and only starlight remained. She was sketching silhouettes of fishermen against moon-washed waves; he was testing how long his homemade rum would last without ice in tropical air. They shared a flask, then stories, then silence that didn’t need filling. Since then, they’ve rewritten their lives—him waking earlier to walk the shoreline with her before distillation begins, her staying later to project old Thai films onto the alley wall behind his workshop, both wrapped in one oversized coat like teenagers hiding from the rain. His sexuality is not loud but deep—like the low R&B that plays when he turns the lights down, city sirens weaving into Marvin Gaye ballads. He makes love like he distills: patient, attentive to heat and timing. Their first time happened during a rooftop thunderstorm, sheets damp from mist rising off warm concrete, their bodies learning each other under flashes of violet sky. He touches like memory, not hunger—fingers tracing old scars as if asking permission before kissing them. Desire, to him, is not reckless but reciprocal—a pact written in sweat and whispered confessions. The scarf she gave him—silk dyed indigo, smelling of night-blooming jasmine—lives in his jacket pocket every day since that third date. It’s become a talisman, proof that softness can survive in hard places. He’s planning to install a telescope on the distillery roof—not for stars alone, but to chart their future together: each new destination marked by constellations only they know.