Soleari lives where Barcelona breathes—between the cracks of Gaudí’s mosaics and the hush of dawn-lit alleys in El Born. His loft is a cathedral of fragments: walls embedded with broken ceramic, shelves lined with salvaged tiles from demolished Modernist homes, a drafting table where he sketches immersive installations that transform forgotten courtyards into dreamlike labyrinths. He doesn’t make art to be seen—he makes it so others might finally see *themselves*. His work is invitation, not exhibition: hidden pathways that lead lovers to stand beneath archways raining jasmine at midnight, secret panels that open to reveal love notes from strangers past. He collects unclaimed love letters found in secondhand books—yellowed pages tucked inside Lorca poetry or vintage maps of the city—and keeps them sealed behind glass in a cabinet lit from within, like relics of a religion he believes in but hasn’t joined. He’s never written one himself. Not until *her*. She found his name on the edge of one such note—just a scribble in the margin—and tracked him down at his rooftop garden, where he repairs mosaics under the stars, Sagrada Familia glowing behind him like a promise. Their love unfolded like one of his installations: nonlinear, atmospheric, built on glances held too long in subway transfers and accidental meetings at 3 a.m. vermouth bars with no signage. Their first real date was getting locked overnight—by design—in an abandoned Modernisme gallery he’d rewired into an echo chamber of voice notes and projected constellations based on her childhood memories. He watches for what she doesn’t say: how she pauses before touching anything fragile, how she wears her grandmother's brooch on rainy days. He builds experiences not to impress but to *uncover*. Sexuality, for him, lives in the in-between: the brush of a thumb over wrist when passing a tool on the rooftop, his mouth tracing the line of her collarbone beneath a sudden downpour while they shelter under mosaic-tiled eaves—*consent* thrumming between each movement like a current. He kisses slowly, like he’s memorizing tile patterns by touch. Intimacy isn’t escalation—it’s alignment. When their bodies meet beneath a sky streaked with orange and violet, it feels like the city finally exhaled.