Xavi walks Rome like a man translating dreams. By day, he hosts *Roma Sotto Voce*, a cult history podcast whispered through alley echoes and fresco dust—his voice threading through forgotten aqueducts and shuttered courtyards. He speaks of emperors in hushed tones not out of reverence but irony, because now all he wants to document is the way a stranger's laugh bounces off wet stone at 2:17am in Trastevere. His real archive isn’t digital—it’s analog and alive: handwritten letters slipped under rusted loft doors before dawn, maps sketched on napkins that lead lovers through vine-choked courtyards where feral cats guard time capsules of old love letters.He lives above an abandoned theater turned candlelit tasting room—once a silent film house, now repurposed by underground mixologists who serve cocktails named after ghosts. There, behind velvet curtains smelling faintly of mothballs and spilled vermouth, Xavi hosts private sound rituals for those brave enough to listen to their own memories played back as ambient scores. He doesn't touch easily. But when it rains—and Rome storms with theatrical precision—he forgets himself. Underneath awnings slick with reflection, he pulls people close not to kiss but to *listen*: to the rhythm of their breath syncing with city sirens weaving into a slow R&B groove bleeding from a distant bar radio.His sexuality unfolds like his maps—layered, intentional, never rushed. It lives in the press of a palm against brick when guiding someone through a blind alley, in sharing headphones beneath an overpass while Bill Withers plays as water pools around their ankles. He makes love like he tells stories—with pauses weighted heavier than words. He believes vulnerability is the only true heirloom worth passing down in a city built on ruins. And yet, his greatest fear is being known completely—not because he hides evil, but because what he carries could unravel someone else’s peace.Beneath his bed lies a metal box filled with polaroids—each one taken after nights that ended too perfectly to speak of: bare shoulders under stairwell lights, the curve of someone's neck haloed by a single hanging bulb, two hands almost touching on cold marble steps. He keeps them not as trophies but warnings. Because every time he thinks he’s safe from falling—there she is again—the woman who found his first map tucked under a cracked bell jar near Ponte Sisto—and followed it all the way into his chest.