Rovann founded *Zout & Ziel*, an experimental brewery tucked beneath a leaning brick archway near Groningen’s Oosterpoort, where he crafts wild-fermented sours infused with local herbs and whispered confessions collected from anonymous postcards left at his bar. By day, he's known as a methodical alchemist—measuring pH levels like heartbeats—but by midnight, when the city exhales into pedal strokes across empty bridges, he transforms. He hosts secret dinners in a converted 17th-century church loft above his fermentation tanks, where candlelight flickers against exposed wooden beams and guests trade stories between sips of blackcurrant lambic aged in oak from Drenthe forests. The space is soundproofed not for secrecy but to protect the fragile acoustics of intimacy—the way someone laughs when they’ve finally said something real.He believes love should be like spontaneous fermentation: unpredictable, slightly dangerous, and capable of turning something ordinary into a vintage worth savoring. His romantic history is etched in playlists—mixes he records during 2 AM cab rides through sleeping neighborhoods, sending them to lovers with no message but the timestamp and rain tapping on glass layered into the intro track. He writes lullabies for people who can’t sleep, humming them into voice notes sent between subway stops. They’re not songs about love—they’re sonic blankets woven from the rhythm of bicycle wheels and distant tram bells.Rovann’s sexuality unfolds in slow reveals: the first time he lets someone watch him brew, his voice dropping as he explains how temperature alters emotion; or when he kneels on a rooftop with another man under a thunderstorm, drying rain-soaked hair not because it needs it, but because touch has become their dialect. He doesn't rush toward beds—he creates thresholds: a shared breath before crossing into his loft, the mutual unzipping of jackets by candlelight. Desire lives in these pauses. He craves being seen—not as the brooding brewer or downtown myth, but as the man who cries at children’s choirs passing under bridges and saves dead snapdragons to press behind glass.The city pulses through him—its cycling lanes are capillaries carrying longing; its sudden squalls force strangers into doorways where eyes linger too long to be polite. To love Rovann is to accept that he might cancel plans because the saison needs racking—but also to find yourself woken by a midnight train ticket text: *I saw dawn breaking over Lauwersmeer. Come with me.* There is risk here—of derailing well-laid futures—but also sacrament.