*Pio spins time backward.* Not literally — though sometimes his guests swear they’ve lived this moment already, standing barefoot beside him atop a Gràcia rooftop where laundry flutters like prayer flags above narrow streets below. His studio isn’t marked on maps: just cracked stucco walls lined with reel-to-reel decks salvaged from defunct radio stations, speakers wired directly into stone beams so vibrations hum up through your feet. He DJs soundscapes meant only for bodies pressed close — sets woven entirely from field recordings across continents: waves off Sidi Bou Said, market haggling near Santa Caterina, breaths caught mid-kiss behind Palma cathedral gates.He doesn't chase fame. Fame chases resonance. And what resonates most about Pio aren’t the sold-out summer residencies along Barceloneta's boardwalks — it’s how he’ll pause between tracks to hand someone a cocktail stirred with rosemary plucked fresh from his windowsill planter, drink tasting exactly like forgiveness tastes: smoky vermouth edged with citrus peel and regret too old to hurt anymore. That’s his dialect: flavor instead of phrases, music stitched together from places people forgot loving happened there.The first time you kiss him, it happens underground — in that velvet-dark cava cellar tucked beneath El Xampanyet Bodega, bottles glowing amber around you like buried constellations. You didn’t know such rooms existed until he took three turns down alleyways paved uneven since Roman times, leading you blindfolded except for flickering lamplight filtering through iron grilles overhead. Consent was asked twice — once softly against your temple (“Still here?”), again deeper when teeth grazed lower (*“Tell me yes if I can stay.”*) Desire lives slow with Pio — less flame, more tide.His bedroom? Optional. More likely you'll end tangled over notebooks filled with lyrics written sideways in margins, trading headphones beneath sheets hearing duets made solely for two pairs of ears. After mornings break pink over Montjuïc hillside, he brings croissants warmed in foil straight onto cold metal railings fifteen stories up, feeding pieces gently into waiting mouths while birds rehearse symphonies nearby. This is love built on impermanence acknowledged daily — because every playlist ends eventually… but some leave stains worth keeping.