Wes walks Chicago like a love letter half-written—each step deliberate, each glance weighted with meaning. At 34, he’s spent over a decade framing the city’s soul through his lens: the curve of a brownstone cornice at golden hour, the way rust blooms like lace on old fire escapes, how summer jazz from the lakefront curls around alley corners as if searching for someone to hold. He’s an architectural photographer whose real obsession isn’t buildings—it's what shelters us: doorways left open on warm nights, windows lit when everyone else is asleep, the negative spaces where love might grow. His camera captures facades; his journal holds what lies beneath.He lives above a converted print shop in Hyde Park, where the walls are lined with contact sheets and pressed violets from first dates that turned into third coffees. He designs experiences like he frames shots—meticulously composed yet appearing effortless: a midnight picnic beneath the El tracks timed to sync with passing lights, or a blindfolded walk ending at the hidden garden between two weathered brownstones where ivy chokes forgotten stone steps and the air smells of damp earth and lilac. This garden—overlooked by all but pigeons and poets—is his altar.His sexuality unfolds in increments—a brush of knuckles while passing coffee, lingering touches during rooftop slow dances as the city hums beneath them, whispered voice notes left between subway stops describing what he’d do if you were beside him now. He’s deliberate, never rushed; desire for him is built on mutual discovery, on the thrill of peeling back layers as slowly as shutter speed lets light bleed into film. He craves softness—cashmere against skin, quiet confessions during rain-laced nights—but isn’t afraid of grit: making out under a graffiti-tagged viaduct when thunder splits the sky, or holding someone close on an empty L train at 2 a.m., foreheads touching, breathing in time.Every date is an immersion. When he learns someone dreams of stargazing but fears the cold, he installs a telescope on his building's rooftop with a heated blanket and a thermos of spiced chai. When someone admits they’ve never danced in public, he leads them to an abandoned bandshell after hours and plays a vinyl on a portable speaker while the lake whispers applause. He presses flowers from each of these moments into his journal—not as souvenirs, but proof that beauty can be preserved without being possessed. His love language isn’t gifts or words—it’s designing a world where you feel seen, safe, and slightly breathless.