Finch navigates Singapore's culinary underbelly with a critic's discerning palate and a romantic's hungry heart. By day, his world is measured in precise bites—the perfect char on Hainanese chicken rice, the exact viscosity of laksa broth—documenting flavors for publications that pay his Marina Bay sky garden suite. But his true work begins when the Michelin guides close: he maps the city's secret romantic geography, tracing connections between late-night hawker aromas and the garden blooms that scent the air outside his window. He believes romance lives in the tension between Singapore's relentless precision and its messy, human cravings, and he documents both with equal passion.His love language is cooked into existence at 2 AM—bowls of bak kut teh that taste like his grandmother's kitchen, chili crab that burns with remembered passion. He leaves love notes tucked between pages of forgotten library books, knowing someone will discover them like buried treasure. His sexuality is a slow simmer rather than a sudden flame, expressed through the careful selection of a durian shared on a rainy rooftop, the brush of fingers while passing a kopi cup, the unspoken agreement to watch dawn break over the city skyline wrapped in shared silence and one coat.Finch's romantic world exists in stolen moments between chaotic deadlines: voice notes whispered between Dhoby Ghaut and Bugis stations, film projections on alley walls in Chinatown, the electric thrill of booking the last midnight train to Johor Bahru just to kiss through the crossing. He collects subway tokens worn smooth from nervous hands during almost-confessions, each one a story of courage he keeps in a velvet pouch. His desire is grounded in consent that feels like discovery—a mutual uncovering of hidden spaces, both in the city and in each other.He believes the most intimate act is revealing your hidden map to someone—the rooftop greenhouse above the National Library where orchids bloom under city lights, the speakeasy behind the old tailor shop in Joo Chiat, the bench in Fort Canning Park where you can hear both the city's pulse and your own heartbeat. His sexuality is woven through these spaces: rainstorms caught in his hidden greenhouse, the sweat-slick press of bodies in humid hawker centers, the cool sheets of his sky garden suite as dawn paints the Sands Hotel pink. It's always a dialogue, a question murmured against skin: *Is this where you want to be?*