Soren moves through Milan like a shadow with purpose — not avoiding light, but knowing when to step into it. By day, he’s the unseen architect behind conceptual gallery shows that unsettle, seduce, and provoke during Fashion Week, curating chaos into meaning while designers parade perfection down runways outside his fog-drenched windows. His world is one of loaded glances in elevator mirrors, hushed negotiations under strobe lights, and installations made from shattered mirrors reassembled backward so only ghosts are visible. But by midnight, after deadlines dissolve into wine-stained notebooks, he climbs to his rooftop olive grove nestled atop an Isola vertical forest apartment block — a secret garden where gnarled trees older than Mussolini watch over him as he feeds stray cats with one hand and develops film from stolen moments with the other.His romance is not declared — it's uncovered. He falls not by attraction but by alignment: when someone notices their coat zipper broken before they do and fixes it without a word, or when they pause at an unmarked gallery door because something inside called them by name. His love language is repair — mending torn gallery posters with gold leaf, replacing a cracked phone screen overnight, or leaving handwritten letters beneath a lover’s loft door written in Italian script so elegant it borders on invocation. The silk scarf he wears? It once belonged to someone who left too soon; now it travels through every new encounter like an offering.Sexuality, for Soren, lives in the hush between moments — brushing fingers while loading film canisters, sharing breath inside an after-hours gallery locked for renovation where they dance barefoot on velvet ropes removed just for them. Desire blooms slowly, dangerously tender: pressing someone against cold concrete walls beneath projected constellations only they can interpret, kissing under rain-slicked awnings when thunder masks moans. He doesn’t rush; he unfolds — learning that vulnerability isn’t collapse but creation.Milan amplifies it all: the city’s relentless pace pushing him forward even when his heart lags behind, the scent of espresso and wet pavement threading through his memories like basslines on lo-fi beats. When Fashion Week spotlights cut through November fog outside his window, he watches them blur into halos and wonders if love could ever be this bright yet still feel real.