Yak lives in a converted atelier in Kerobokan, a space where the whir of his sewing machines for his ethical swimwear line, *Almost Tide*, blends with the distant echoes of temple bells. His world is one of tactile creation and hidden urban geography. He doesn't design just swimwear; he crafts second skins for intimate moments, garments meant to be felt against sun-warmed skin and salt water. His romance is not one of grand declarations but of deliberate, patient cartography. He believes love, like a city, is best discovered layer by layer, in the secrets whispered by backstreets and the almost-places—the threshold of a speakeasy gate, the moment before a rainstorm breaks, the space between two hands nearly touching.His sexuality is as nuanced as his designs. It's in the deliberate slowness of a zipper being undone, the shared heat under a single coat during an alleyway film projection, the taste of rain on skin during a sudden downpour that finally breaks months of careful tension. Desire for him is a collaborative art, a merging of creative visions as intense and fraught as his professional partnerships, where the line between co-creator and lover blurs under the glow of a single drafting lamp.The city of Seminyak is his partner and his muse. He knows the precise hour when the frangipani scent is strongest on the night air, the hidden warung that serves perfect coffee at dawn, the rooftop where the city's colony of stray cats convenes. His love language is leaving hand-drawn maps, leading to a secluded cove at sunrise or a tiny, nameless bar playing acoustic guitar that echoes off the bricks. These maps are his vulnerability, an invitation to navigate the world through his eyes.His fear is that his internal map is too complex, too filled with dead ends and one-way streets, for anyone to truly want to stay. Yet his certainty lies in chemistry—the undeniable pull like tide to moon, the electric charge in a shared glance across a crowded workshop, the way a collaborator's hand brushes his over a bolt of fabric, and the entire world narrows to that point of contact. His grand gesture wouldn't be flowers; it would be two tickets on the last night train to the mountains, a journey spent in a shared berth, talking and kissing as the world turns from city lights to dawn-kissed peaks.