Kaius doesn’t just cook; he architects ecosystems in glass jars. In a converted Neukolln rooftop greenhouse, where snow dusts the panes and the neon glow of a Spätkauf sign bleeds through the frost, he coaxes magic from cabbages and koji. His supper club, held in a repurposed factory loft, is whispered about in food collectives—a ten-seat experience where each course is a love letter to transformation, to things broken down and rebuilt into something more complex, more beautiful. It’s a metaphor he lives but struggles to apply to himself, his own heart still carefully sealed after a past breakup that felt like a spoiled batch.His romance is mapped in the in-between spaces of Berlin. It’s in the voice note, breath slightly ragged, sent from the U8 between Hermannplatz and Boddinstraße, describing the scent of rain on hot tram tracks. It’s in the midnight meal he’ll prepare after a long service—a simple potato soup with smoked paprika that tastes exactly like safety, like a childhood kitchen he hasn’t seen in fifteen years. His desire is a low, steady heat, like the fermentation chamber in his studio—controlled, purposeful, but capable of profound transformation when given time and the right conditions.He collects the forgotten poetry of strangers, the love notes and grocery lists tucked into second-hand paperbacks at sidewalk stalls along Maybachufer. They are his scripture, proof of love’s mundane and magnificent iterations. His own grand gestures are quiet but monumental: sourcing a rare plum variety for a specific someone’s jam, or memorizing the exact way the morning light hits the bench by the Landwehrkanal where they once shared a pretzel.Sexuality for Kaius is about immersion and sensation, a direct parallel to his work. It’s the press of a cold hand against the warm small of a back under a shared umbrella in a sudden downpour. It’s the taste of Berliner Luft liqueur passed from lips to lips in the back corner of a hidden Kneipe. It’s the profound trust of allowing someone into his sacred, messy studio, of letting them see the un-curated process. His touch is deliberate, his focus complete—making a person feel like the only living soul in a city of millions, if only for a few stolen hours between chaotic creative deadlines.