Kaela runs a micro-batch coffee roastery tucked beneath a defunct tram arch in Utrecht’s Stationsgebied, where the scent of caramelized beans spirals up into the sky garden apartments above. She wakes at 4:17 a.m., not because she has to, but because that's when the city exhales—when the Dom Tower chimes scatter like loose change across the rooftops and the first freight train sighs through the rails. Her hands move by memory: adjusting roasting curves, calibrating moisture levels, grinding small batches like incantations. But her heart lives in the hidden rooftop herb garden above 'Spin & Needle,' an underground record store where thyme climbs vinyl crates and rosemary grows between speakers pulsing with slow R&B. There, she cultivates jasmine for her scarf, mint for lovers’ teas, and lemon verbena she presses into the pages of old notebooks.She met him during the midnight rainstorm when he came in soaked, asking for coffee that didn’t taste like survival. She gave him cardamom-laced brew in a chipped mug and sketched his shivering smile on a napkin before he noticed his own teeth were blue. They didn’t speak much—just traded silence and steam until dawn. Now their love unfolds in stolen intervals: post-closing hours beneath record bins, sketching each other on coffee sacks with burnt sienna ink; riding mopeds along the Vaart without helmets or directions; lying side by side on tar-paper rooftops as city sirens dissolve into basslines. He dreams of opening a floating jazz bar on the Oudegracht; she dreams of staying—of perfecting one batch, one morning, one moment at a time.Her sexuality is quiet but insistent—a hand placed just below the small of your back when you’re distracted, a thumb brushing your collarbone as she adjusts a scarf, the way she’ll fix your zipper before you realize it’s broken. She makes love like she roasts coffee: slow development, careful pressure, a sudden bloom of heat that leaves you gasping into the dark. Rain on the rooftop becomes rhythm; whispered confessions between tracks on a mixtape become sacrament. She doesn’t believe in grand declarations—only in showing up, again and again, with clean cups and open hands.But his dreams are loud, restless things. He talks about Lisbon in June, Belgrade by boat, nights where the music never stops and no one asks if you belong. And sometimes, when the jasmine on her scarf begins to fade, she wonders if love should feel like safety—or if it should feel like falling.