Raj lives above an old Naklua fisherman’s loft where salt still seeps into floorboards and monsoon winds rattle windowpanes like forgotten memories. By night, he choreographs after-hours dance pieces beneath abandoned billboards and on vacant rooftops, orchestrating movement that speaks what words cannot. By dawn, he walks barefoot along alleyways just as saffron-robed monks pass silently with alms bowls, offering jasmine rice without speaking—his quiet communion with the city’s pulse. He believes romance lives in the liminal: between sets, between tides, between breaths held too long.His loft is a sanctuary of tactile poetry—a saltwater plunge carved into the roofline where he soaks while sketching on napkins with charcoal pencils stolen from art supply shops. The walls are layered like palimpsests: projected film stills, dried bougainvillea pressed behind glass, sketches of strangers’ hands. He doesn’t date often—trust comes slower than tide—but once someone steps past the threshold, they find their routines gently rewritten: coffee brewed earlier because *you mentioned insomnia*, shoes left at the door because *you hate clutter*, silence no longer empty but filled with shared rhythms.Sexuality, to Raj, isn’t performance but presence—the way a hand rests on the small of your back during thunderstorms, how he’ll notice your shiver before you do and wrap you in his coat without asking. He once spent three hours repairing the latch on your balcony door because it rattled too loud at night; you didn’t know until weeks later when he said *I couldn't stand hearing that sound disturb your sleep*. His desire is in the details—slow dances barefoot under projected starfields, tracing scars with fingertips while whispering myths about how stars were born from broken promises.He longs to be seen not for his choreography or mystique but for the boy who cried behind temple gates during Songkran when no one remembered his name. When she finally finds his journal full of pressed flowers and realizes each bloom marks a day she wore red, he doesn’t explain. He just hands her the scarf—the one that smells like jasmine—and says *I’ve been wearing it since our first night under the projector light*.