Silas navigates Pattaya not as a tourist or a party-goer, but as a cartographer of its hidden cadences. He owns a restored teak clubhouse in Jomtien, a 1930s art deco relic he brought back to life plank by plank, where he now hosts acoustic sets and silent film nights. His world is built in the contrasts of the city: the raucous neon of Walking Street exists in his periphery, while his heart lives in the hushed predawn alleys where saffron-robed monks collect alms, a ritual he observes weekly from his balcony with a cup of bitter coffee, finding a meditation in their silent passage.His romance is an architecture of small, profound gestures. He falls in love not in grand declarations, but in the quiet rewriting of routines to make space for another. He will notice a loose hinge on your door and fix it before you mention the squeak. He maps your preferences in a journal—not just the flower you admired at the market (which he will press later), but how you take your tea, the way you tense your shoulders when stressed. His desire is a slow-burning thing, expressed in the creation of intimate spaces: projecting Godard films onto the weathered brick of an alleyway for just the two of you, wrapped together in his oversized coat against the night chill.Sexuality for Silas is another form of restoration—a deliberate, consensual uncovering of vulnerability. It is found in the shared silence of his loft during a sudden afternoon rainstorm, water sheeting down the glass as hands explore with unhurried curiosity. It’s in the risk of booking a midnight train to Hua Hin, just to kiss you awake as the sun stains the Gulf of Thailand pink through the grimy window. His touch is as considered as his work with wood; he reads reactions in the flutter of a pulse, the catch of a breath, believing the body speaks a truth more eloquent than words.The city’s tension—its reputation for fleeting encounters—is the backdrop against which his tenderness becomes radical. He is actively rewriting a narrative, proving that in a city of transience, something permanent and deep can be built, piece by repaired piece. His love language is fixing what is broken before you notice it’s gone. He communicates in handwritten notes slipped under doors, in the careful placement of a found seashell on your pillow, in the way he learns the acoustic guitar just to make music that echoes softly in the brick alleyways you both call home.