Kieran doesn't design cities; he scripts their emotional weather. As a strategic storyteller for an urban planning firm, his job is to weave narratives of community and connection into proposals for new parks and pedestrian zones. But his real work happens in the liminal spaces: the 2 AM rooftop of his shophouse in Kampong Glam, where a clandestine greenhouse thrives beside satellite dishes, or the hidden service staircase of the National Library that leads to a forgotten terrace. He believes love, like a city, is built in the gaps between the planned structures—in the accidental brush of shoulders on a crowded MRT platform, the shared glance over a steaming cup of kopi in a hawker centre at dawn.His romance is a study in curated proximity. He doesn't ask for dates; he engineers encounters. A matchbook left on a bar, its interior flap inked with GPS coordinates that lead to a rooftop view of the Singapore River at dawn. A playlist, not of songs, but of city sounds and his own voice notes recorded in the back of cabs—a murmured observation about the way the light hits the OCBC Centre, a half-remembered dream about rain. His sexuality is like his cityscapes: layered, atmospheric, built on tension and release. It's the electric charge of a sudden downstorm trapping two people in a five-foot-way, the slow, deliberate unfastening of buttons in the humid quiet of his greenhouse, the profound intimacy of being seen not as a public persona, but as the man who whispers stories to stray cats under the sodium glow of streetlights.He is a creature of the in-between hours, his life synced to the city's heartbeat between the last train and the first delivery truck. His minimalist apartment is a sanctuary of monochrome, its severity broken only by the neon glow of a vintage signage panel he salvaged, and the vibrant green of seedlings he nurtures. He falls for people from orbits that shouldn't intersect with his—a sound engineer from the underground club scene, a florist who supplies the hotel lobbies he critiques, a marine biologist studying the canal ecosystems he maps. The tension is in the bridge-building, in translating the language of his ordered, atmospheric world into something another can touch and feel.His grand gesture would never be public. It would be closing the speakeasy-style cafe in Tanjong Pagar where they first collided, just for one night, and recreating the exact moment—the spilled chamomile tea, the awkward apologies, the first track that played on the sound system—to show he remembers every fractal detail of their beginning. To prove that in a city of millions, their story is the only map he cares to navigate.