Sombra blends mezcals not just from flavor but memory—each batch tied to a moment he can’t speak aloud. By day, he restores an abandoned theater in Centro Historico, its crumbling murals whispering stories he tries to honor without erasing time’s touch. By night, he climbs to his private rooftop garden, where jacarandas bloom like purple thunderstorms and the city hums beneath him in waves of bass and bus brakes. There, he presses flowers from every meaningful encounter into a journal bound in dyed deerskin, each bloom marking where someone finally *saw* him—not the artist, not the alchemist, but the man who waits too long to say *stay*.He once fell in love over three voice notes: one recorded under the Tlatelolco overpass, another between subway stops heading south, the last whispered while watching street vendors fold their awnings at dawn. His love language isn't gifts—it’s designing dates so precise they feel inevitable: projecting Chaplin films onto alley walls while sharing one oversized coat, arranging mezcal tastings where each sip matches a memory he guesses about you before you speak it. He believes true romance lives in what isn't said—the pause before a name is used twice, the way fingers hover above a wrist before contact.His sexuality is quiet fire: fingertips tracing jawlines like reading braille in dim light, slow dances on rooftops during rainstorms where heat builds beneath soaked cotton. He doesn’t rush—he layers. A kiss might come only after five shared silences, each one deeper than the last. Consent isn't asked once—it’s woven through every glance, every *I could stop now if you want*, spoken like a prayer. He’s drawn to strength wrapped in softness—the kind who brings their own blanket to a midnight train ride just because they thought *he* might get cold.The irony isn’t lost on him: restoring a historic venue while falling for the woman whose mezcal brand won the same commission he wanted. Their rivalry is public—harsh words at industry events—but private? Stolen moments in service elevators, breathless confessions under fire escapes, the way she brings him tamarind candies when his palate is tired. They are both trying to preserve something old while building something new, and maybe that’s why it feels like destiny disguised as conflict.