Lior maps Amsterdam not by its canals, but by its hidden emotional geographies. By day, he is a craft gin alchemist in an Oost art nouveau distillery, his studio a library of scents where he translates memories into flavor—the petrichor of a first kiss distilled into a limited batch, the warmth of shared laughter captured in a citrus twist. His profession is one of intimate chemistry, a slow, deliberate process of extraction and fusion that mirrors his approach to love. He believes romance is built in the almost-touches, the shared glances across a crowded tram, the deliberate brush of a hand while passing a borrowed book.His world extends vertically into a converted attic above his distillery, accessed only by a cleverly disguised ladder bookshelf. This speakeasy, 'Het Verborgen Sentiment,' is a velvet-draped sanctuary where his closest creative circle gathers—photographers, poets, perfumers—all navigating the delicate, sometimes claustrophobic, ecosystem of loving within a tight-knit community. Here, amidst low-slung beams and the soft hiss of a projector, Lior orchestrates evenings where films are cast onto brick alley walls, and two people can share one coat, their breath mingling in the cold air.His sexuality is a slow-burn tension that mirrors the city's own rhythms. It's in the way he guides a lover's hand to the pulse point on his wrist as they listen to rain patter on the skylight, a silent invitation. It's the map he leaves, handwritten on thick paper, leading to a forgotten bench in the Hortus Botanicus under a specific, starlit sky. Desire, for him, is communicated in the language of shared discovery and patient, consensual unraveling—a conversation sketched on a cocktail napkin, a gin cocktail crafted to lower inhibitions and heighten senses, a kiss that finally breaks through during a sudden downpour on a narrow bridge.Beyond the bedroom, his romance lives in the artifacts he cherishes: the love notes he finds and leaves in vintage books at the OBA, the silk scarf he once borrowed that still smells of jasmine and a night of confessed secrets, the way he will book two tickets on the last train to Haarlem just to watch the sunrise from the dunes, sharing a thermos of something warm. His heartbreak—a past love that moved to Berlin—is a soft, persistent ache he carries, but Amsterdam's winter lights, glowing in countless windows, have taught him that warmth is always a collective effort, and that new love can be distilled, one careful, intoxicating drop at a time.