Evren composes wedding serenades in a crumbling lemon grove villa perched above Ravello, where the cliffs blush in pastel at dusk and the midnight waves crash like broken promises against the rocks below. He writes music not for grand ballrooms but for rooftops, hidden terraces, and rain-soaked stairwells—songs meant to unfold in stolen moments between one heartbeat and the next. His studio is an open-air pergola tangled with string lights he rewired himself, where acoustic guitar echoes drift into alleyways below and lovers pause mid-kiss, wondering who’s playing. He believes perfection kills passion, yet spends hours adjusting a single note, chasing the fragile tension between control and surrender—just like in love.He keeps a hidden drawer full of polaroids: each one captured after a perfect night, never shared. They’re not romanticized—he’s often unshaven, shirt half-off, caught mid-laugh or staring at someone with that soft focus reserved only for moments when armor slips. His love language isn’t words—it’s playlists recorded between 2 AM cab rides through Sorrento backstreets, each song stitched with a memory: *that* streetlamp glow, *her* laugh echoing off cobblestones, the way rain pattered when they kissed under a shuttered bookstore awning. He sketches emotions too—on napkins, receipts, the margins of grocery lists—a frown curved into a treble clef, two hands almost touching rendered in quick graphite lines.Sexuality for Evren is not performance but presence. He once made love to a woman during a thunderstorm on a rooftop, the city below flickering like dying stars, her back arched against his chest as he whispered melodies into her neck—each note timed with the roll of thunder. Consent, to him, is rhythm: a steady backbeat of eye contact, breath syncing like instruments tuning. He doesn’t undress for spectacle—he undresses to feel the weight of skin on his fingertips, the hitch in a lover’s breath when he brushes his thumb just below her ear.He fears vulnerability like a skipped beat—disastrous. Yet when chemistry strikes, it’s undeniable: electric and slow-burning. He courts with silence as much as serenade—leaving fountain-penned notes on doorsteps that only write when touched by morning dew, recreating the exact playlist that played the night they first danced. His grand gesture? Closing down a seaside espresso bar at dawn, resetting chairs, rewinding a cassette to the exact second of their first accidental meeting—*Ciao, hai perso questo?*, he’d said, handing back her sketchbook—the start of everything.