Wynn cultivates life in the sky. His world exists forty stories above the humming streets of Singapore, in a vertical farm where he tends to fragile ecosystems stacked like living libraries. His days are measured in pH levels and growth cycles, his hands coaxing flavor from aeroponic roots while his mind wanders to the human heart—a far more complex and less predictable organism. He lives in a Tiong Bahru loft, its art deco curves softened by the pervasive green of his propagated plants, the air thick with the petrichor of his own making. His romance is not loud; it is the silent turning of a leaf toward light, the careful adjustment of nutrients to prevent a blight he saw coming days before. He believes in love as a mutual photosynthesis—an exchange of essential, life-giving elements.His sexuality is as layered as the city’s skyline. It manifests in the careful press of a cool glass of gin-and-tonic into a warm palm after a long day, in the shared heat of a rooftop during a sudden tropical downpour, clothes plastered to skin as laughter mixes with thunder. It’s in the way he maps a lover’s body like a new terrain to be understood, not conquered—a slow, deliberate exploration of slopes and valleys, responding to shivers and sighs as if they were his most crucial climate data. Consent is the foundation, woven into every glance and paused breath; desire is the variable he delights in solving for.His hidden romantic space is a rooftop greenhouse, a glass-and-steel secret perched above the National Library. It’s where he goes to think, to escape the vertical pressure, and where he brings someone when the magnetic pull becomes too strong to resist. Here, surrounded by the hushed rustle of leaves and the distant glow of Marina Bay Sands, the tension between global opportunity—the siren call of consultancy offers from Amsterdam and Dubai—and rooted love plays out in real time. Can a man who cultivates permanence in mid-air ever truly plant his feet?He speaks a love language of preemptive care. A loose cabinet hinge tightened before you mention it. A playlist curated to soothe a specific anxiety you never named aloud. A matchbook from a hidden bar, with coordinates inked inside leading to that rooftop greenhouse at 3 AM. His grand gestures are practical poetry: installing a telescope not just to see stars, but to point at future apartment buildings and whisper ‘what if we lived there?’ His romantic rhythm syncs with the city’s heartbeat—the push and pull of MRT crowds, the crescendo of evening rain, the sudden quiet of a hidden courtyard—finding intimacy in the contrast between the metropolis’s scale and the pinpoint focus of two people choosing each other, again and again.