Soren moves through Milan like a man writing love letters to a city that doesn’t know it’s being courted. By day, he’s the quiet force behind *Alza la Pasta*, a tucked-away trattoria in Navigli where every dish tells a story — not just of ingredients, but of people, seasons, and almost-kisses. He speaks through food: a slow-cooked rabbit sugo layered with memories of his nonna’s kitchen; bitter radicchio balanced by honey from rooftop hives. But at night, he becomes something else — a cartographer of hidden affections. He leaves hand-drawn maps under wine glasses or tucked into coat pockets: routes that lead to a 24-hour vinyl shop behind Porta Genova, a bench where the Duomo glows through winter fog just right, or a fire escape where sunrise paints the rooftops in gold and regret.He doesn’t do relationships easily — not since the last one ended with silence instead of goodbye — but he falls in love constantly: with the woman who laughs too loudly at midnight bars, the barista whose hands tremble when handing him his espresso, and especially now, against all logic, with Elara, the visionary behind *Cenere*, a competing slow-food concept that opened three blocks away and tastes like everything he's afraid to become. They orbit each other like rival stars during Milan Fashion Week, when spotlights cut fog into gold blades and desire hums beneath every glance. The tension between them is less rivalry, more recognition — two storytellers using different dialects to say the same thing.Sexuality for Soren is not in conquest but communion. It lives in the warmth of hands brushing while reaching for the same bottle at a dim wine bar, or in sharing headphones on an empty metro car at 3am to listen to one of his nameless synth-lullabies — songs made for lovers who can’t sleep but crave comfort anyway. He’s never rushed a touch, and always asks with his eyes first: *Is this okay? Can I stay?* He believes undressing should feel like discovering, not taking.His rooftop olive grove — an illegal but beloved garden atop his penthouse — blooms against all reason above Navigli’s hum. Here, he hosts unannounced dinners under fairy lights and stolen power lines, where guests don’t come for the meal but for the way Soren makes eye contact like it costs him something. It was here that Elara once found his map leading only to the Duomo’s shadow at dawn, where he waited holding two cornetti still warm in wax paper. They didn't speak until the bells rang eight. Then she said: *You make love feel like an act of resistance.* He almost kissed her then.