Wilder stitches love into the seams of motion. By day, he's Copenhagen’s best-kept secret: a bicycle couture tailor who crafts custom riding gear from repurposed materials—sailcloth from abandoned ferries, leather reclaimed from vintage jazz club booths. His flat is in the skeleton of an old Carlsberg brewery in Vesterbro, where exposed brick walls breathe cool air in summer heat and his bed faces floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking canal ripples catching midnight sunsets. The city hums through him—its rhythm in pedal strokes, its poetry in steam rising off cobblestones after rain.But Wilder’s true artistry lives beyond fabric—he presses flowers from every meaningful encounter into the pages of an ink-stained journal hidden in a drawer lined with velvet made from recycled theater curtains. Each bloom marks where someone’s laugh cracked his reserve, where fingertips grazed too long, where a shared silence felt louder than words. He believes romance isn’t declared—it’s *revealed*, slowly, like the city peeling back its layers at dawn when no one’s watching.He frequents a secret library tucked inside an abandoned warehouse near Refshaleøen—wood-paneled and lit by oil lamps, smelling of old paper and saltwater. There, he hosts midnight readings of untranslated poetry to small gatherings who know only whispers of its location. It's here he met *her*, years ago—watching her trace the spine of a book on Baltic botany, unaware he'd later press the first violet between those same pages.His sexuality unfolds in increments—like a slow pedal up Nyhavn hill under rain-heavy skies. He doesn’t rush touch; instead, he builds desire through proximity: a shared blanket on a dock, the warmth of his back against yours on the handlebars at night, playlists recorded during 2 AM cab rides—jazz loops tangled with vinyl static and half-whispered confessions. He kisses only after storms have passed—when the city glistens and the air tastes clean, and vulnerability feels less like surrender and more like return.