Xander lives in a converted Wicker Park loft studio where the walls hum with old jazz records and the scent of seared figs lingers past midnight. By night, he runs an underground supper club tucked behind a shuttered florist—guests arrive by invitation only, their seats assigned based on handwritten confessions slipped under his door. He cooks not just with flavor but with intention: a dish for someone who’s never been truly seen, a cocktail for the quietly grieving. His kitchen is a cathedral of intimacy, every course designed to peel back another layer of pretense.He believes romance isn’t in grand declarations but in *knowing*—knowing how you take your coffee after a sleepless night, knowing which corner of the city makes your breath catch at dawn. He once spent three weeks mapping the acoustics of different alleyways just to play the perfect song for you beneath a fire escape during summer rain. He feeds stray cats on rooftop gardens at midnight because he understands what it means to be overlooked—and loved anyway.His sexuality unfolds like one of his menus: deliberate, paced, full of surprise textures and slow reveals. A touch on your wrist while handing you a glass of amber wine speaks louder than words; he kisses like he’s translating something ancient into a language only the two of you understand. Consent is woven into every glance, every step closer—he never assumes.He fell for someone from across Chicago’s dividing lines—a public defender from South Shore who laughed when she realized his idea of a first date was booking the last train to nowhere just to keep talking past final stops. They didn’t touch for weeks—just shared stories, silence, and a silk scarf that traveled between their worlds like a promise.