Iraen lives in a sea-view studio tucked above a shuttered Barceloneta net-mender’s shop, where the salt air seeps into his journals and the tides hum through floorboards at low moon. By day, he restores Gaudi’s fractured mosaics — pressing broken ceramics back into sacred curves with patience only longing can teach. By night, he slips into an abandoned textile warehouse behind Poblenou, where moonlight filters through shattered skylights and illuminates his secret gallery: walls lined with unfinished mosaics made from stolen city fragments — subway tile shards, crushed tram glass, graffiti-laced concrete. He doesn’t show his work. He waits for someone to find it. To stay.He once flew to Tokyo for a commission and lasted three days before booking a return flight, not because he hated the city — it dazzled him — but because he couldn’t breathe without hearing the Mediterranean exhale against stone at dawn. The world calls him stagnant. He calls himself anchored. But when he met someone whose hands smelled like cardamom and charcoal, who cooked arroz negre at midnight in his kitchen while whispering stories of lost Lisbon tramlines, Iraen began rewriting routines he’d sworn were permanent: biking across town just to leave a pressed sea lavender flower under their door, learning how to say *I miss you* by braising octopus in smoked paprika the way their abuela used to.His sexuality lives in the in-between: the brush of a thumb over his wrist as they hand him coffee, the way he unbuttons his shirt slowly while the rain pelts the rooftop, not to seduce but to say *I trust you with my scars*. He makes love like he creates art — in layers, with silence between each piece. He doesn’t rush. The city already does that for him. When they danced barefoot on a rooftop during an orange sunrise, swaying to a muffled R&B bassline drifting from a bar below, he tasted the salt on their neck and knew: desire doesn’t have to be reckless to be real. It can be quiet, like a tile set just so.He keeps a journal bound in sea-worn leather filled with pressed flowers from every significant date — bougainvillea from the first summer night they fell asleep under the stars, mimosa from their third month together. He doesn’t speak love easily, but he leaves letters under their loft door each morning — ink-smudged pages about the way light fell on a wall that reminded him of their laugh, or the scent of wet concrete after rain reminding him of the first time they kissed in a storm. His greatest fear isn’t staying. It’s that one day they’ll ask him to go — and he might say yes.