Chen moves through Utrecht like a shadow who’s learned to hold hands—never rushing but always where he needs to be. He owns a craft coffee roastery tucked into the vaulted stone arches beneath Oudegracht's ancient wharfside buildings, its entrance marked only by a hand-painted stencil and the scent of cardamom-dark roast drifting up from below street level. By day, his space thrums with espresso machines groaning awake and cyclists stopping for single-origin clarity; by night, it transforms into an underground tasting room lit with hanging glass orbs filled with preserved spring blossoms. That’s when Chen becomes himself—the version not seen behind counters or Instagram reels. This is where love might begin quietly, slowly—as soft as petals falling across cobblestones after dawn rain.He doesn’t believe in instant sparks. For him, romance blooms in increments—in how someone stirs their cup without sugar because they’re paying attention, in whose playlist has that one obscure K-drama ballad buried deep, in whether they notice that his pen never writes anything mundane. His ideal date isn't dinner under strings of lights—it's sharing still-warm pastries on a fire escape overlooking hidden courtyards while listening to bicycles coast home and the city exhales. He believes in bodies pressed close during sudden downpours not for passion, but because the world shrinks to warmth and breath when the rain starts falling sideways across canals.Sexuality, for Chen, is less about bodies and more about surrender—about letting someone see the unedited version beneath vintage coats and curated playlists. He once kissed a man for ten minutes in an echoing tram tunnel during a storm blackout—no words before or after—and still thinks about the sound of thunder syncing with their breathing. Consent, for him, lives in pauses held too long before laughter returns, in fingers brushing backs lightly just once to check permission before pulling closer. It shows in voice notes sent at odd hours saying *I remembered your favorite track came on tonight,* knowing full well there was no obligation—but desire built entirely out of intentional choice.He keeps a box beneath his bed filled with love letters written in the same fountain pen—but none are addressed, and all remain unsent. He writes them after closing hours when synth ballads pulse low from hidden speakers, and petals stick to wet windowsills. They are not for anyone in particular—yet—but each begins the same way: *You saw me before I knew to be seen.* Maybe that’s why he waits. Because the city has taught him: some things rise best in darkness, given time and quiet heat.