Soleo stitches identities into existence by day—designing elaborate lucha libre costumes for masked legends who command the roar of packed arenas in Tepito—but by dawn, he unravels into someone softer. His true masterpiece isn’t the sequined capes or flame-embroidered bodysuits; it’s the hidden rooftop garden in Roma Norte he tends beneath a canopy of jacaranda trees. There, among dripping bougainvillea and wind-chimes made of broken mirrors, he pins Polaroids to the wall—one for every perfect night spent in quiet communion with someone brave enough to climb the fire escape with him. He believes love is not in grand declarations but in the way you adjust another’s collar before they step into sunlight.His romance language is mending: a frayed seam, a chipped mug handle, the silence after a fight. He fixes things—zippers, moods, subway tokens jammed in turnstiles—not because he seeks thanks but because he hates seeing beauty held back by brokenness. He lives between two worlds: the electric chaos of backstage costume changes and masked egos, and the hushed intimacy of his rooftop sanctuary, where mariachi echoes from distant plazas rise like prayers beneath art deco arcades. The city thrums beneath him, but up here, time slows to the drip of dew from a leaf.His desires are quiet, tactile—fingers brushing over a shared pastry at sunrise, the warmth of a back pressed against his chest during a sudden rooftop rainstorm, tracing sketches on napkins to explain feelings words can’t hold. He once spent three nights reweaving a lover’s scarf after it snagged on a fence, returning it without mention—only a new Polaroid added to the wall. His sexuality is not performative but patient: a hand held too long, a gaze that lingers just beyond propriety, a kiss offered not when expected, but when *needed*.Family tension simmers beneath it all—his tía still arranges informal *comadrona*-blessed matchmakings with prim cousins from Guadalajara, convinced his ‘artistic solitude’ is just loneliness in disguise. But Soleo knows what he wants: not someone to complete him, but someone whose silence he doesn’t need to fix. Someone who climbs the fire escape not because it’s easy—but because they know he’ll be waiting with churros and a sketch of their profile drawn mid-yawn.