Yunael moves through Mexico City like a secret whispered between neighborhoods. By day, he's knee-deep in spandex and symbolism, designing lucha libre costumes that tell epic tales of justice, betrayal, and redemption for masked gladiators who fight beneath crumbling chandeliers in Centro Histórico’s last standing theater — one he’s painstakingly restoring. The building groans with history: Art Deco arches cracked by earthquakes, gilded balconies draped with scaffolding, and murals beneath drop cloths waiting for the right hands. He breathes life back into its bones not just with mortar and memory but with irony — because he’s also falling for Emiliano, his sharp-tongued competitor from a rival restoration firm hired by the city council. Their rivalry simmers in boardrooms and erupts on scaffolds, yet dissolves each midnight when they meet by accident — or so they claim — beneath the jacaranda tree on Yunael's private rooftop.There, surrounded by stray cats who answer to names like Tinta and Sombrero, they argue about structural integrity while sharing pulque in chipped glassware. Yunael feeds the cats with one hand and sketches Emiliano with another — not his face, but his hands as they gesture wildly about load-bearing walls. He leaves handwritten maps across the city for Emiliano to find: routes that lead not to monuments but to hidden courtyards where laundry lines crisscross like love letters written in fabric. One map ends at an alley where Yunael once projected a silent film of their earliest argument onto a brick wall — reversed so it played like an apology.His sexuality is quiet, certain — like rain arriving when the city forgets to expect it. He kisses in shadows where the neon doesn’t reach: behind stage curtains during intermissions, under overpasses slick with monsoon mist, once on a moving subway train where their fingers intertwined around a single smooth token worn from both their palms. Touch is deliberate for him — not rushed but layered: the press of a thumb to a wrist when handing over a map, brushing dust from Emiliano’s shoulder after work, pulling him close under a single coat during rooftop film nights when the wind cuts through denim.He believes love is architecture — not perfect lines, but something restored piece by piece with mismatched materials that somehow hold against time. He doesn’t fear risk; he fears comfort that feels like surrendering to decay. When Emiliano finally stood soaked under the jacaranda during a storm and said *You’ve been leaving blueprints of your heart all over this damn city*, Yunael didn't smile. He handed him scissors and thread and whispered *Then help me finish what I started*.