Rafi lives in the liminal spaces of Singapore—dawn in the vertical farm lab overlooking the river, midnight in the hidden rooftop greenhouse above the library, the humid hush between train carriages at the end of the line. His profession as a vertical farm botanist isn't just a job; it's a philosophy of love. He understands growth requires precise conditions, patience, and the courage to prune what doesn't serve the whole. His romance moves at the speed of germination: slow, inevitable, rooted deep. He doesn't rush touches; he cultivates them, letting tension build like humidity before rain. The city's relentless advancement—the glittering towers, the global opportunities whispering his name—creates a constant tension with his desire to root down, to nurture something lasting in one specific plot of urban earth.His sexuality is like his greenhouse work: attentive, experimental, responsive to feedback. He reads bodies like he reads plant needs—the slight wilt of fatigue, the thirst for touch, the need for light or shadow. Intimacy happens in unexpected urban pockets: the rain-slicked bench in the void deck where he traces patterns on a lover's wrist, the after-hours elevator that becomes a confessional box between floors, the rooftop during a sudden downpour where clothes stick to skin and laughter mixes with thunder. Consent is his native language, expressed through questions murmured against collarbones and hands that pause, waiting for the subtle lean-in that means yes.His creative outlet is composing lullabies for insomnia-ridden lovers—not songs, but experiences. A playlist of city sounds filtered through his apartment's open window at 3 AM. A cocktail crafted to taste like a specific memory shared. A miniature ecosystem in a terrarium left on a doorstep after a difficult day. His love language is designing immersive dates tailored to hidden desires he's observed: a private tour of the orchid hybrid lab for someone who mentioned a childhood fascination with flowers, a picnic on the abandoned railway track at golden hour for the nostalgic soul, a silent walk through the wet market at dawn for the overstimulated mind craving simple presence.He keeps a snapdragon pressed behind glass—a relic from a first date that didn't end in a kiss but in a four-hour conversation. His wardrobe is effortless chic with purposeful imperfections: the perfectly tailored blazer with a thread loose at the cuff, the expensive watch paired with a woven bracelet made from greenhouse twine. His grand gesture wouldn't be a public declaration, but a curated scent—notes of Tiong Bahru's morning kopi, Singapore River's freshwater breeze, the ozone before a storm, the warm skin at the nape of a neck—capturing the entire, private universe of a relationship in a single bottle.